Unbalanced
by JMS6
Summary: Even after the fall, John can't stop believing. Three years after the fall, he finds himself back at his friend's grave again and everything changes.
1. Visiting Hours

Unbalanced

Part One

* * *

John visited the grave (his grave) every week at least. If not every other day, he would go once a week. That was his minimum 'mourning' time, officially, although he mourned all the time anyway; it was also his maximum time limit. He couldn't spend too long without seeing the proof or he would begin to feel like none of it was ever real – almost as though Moriarty had planned his life for him and not just the events on the rooftop.

When the flowers looked like they were wilting, he would replace them with fresh ones. Originally he had left rich reds and pale yellows, but as depression had set in he had unknowingly tended towards darker colours – deep, dark purples, blues and oranges. He had even once or twice put a white carnation in the inadequate flower holder by the sleek black marble.

Mycroft's choice, of course. The gravestone was quiet, understated and pretentious. Like Mycroft. Everything had been arranged by him, of course. Remotely and silently, with only one time of contact between him and John the entire time.

_I'm assuming you would prefer to forget about this, then? MH_

_Yes. JW_

_Then I will make the necessary arrangements. I am sorry. MH_

John had felt unable to reply or thank Mycroft.

This week was the umpteenth. It had been so, so long. John had lost count a long time ago. It felt like a long time. Every second felt longer than it should to him and it wasn't fair. Everything had slowed down slightly when he had seen the body and it didn't seem to have sped back up again, meaning that his life was carried out in a state of perpetual, dreamlike unconsciousness. Even Sarah had sacked him after two weeks.

"_I'm sorry," Sarah said pitifully to him one afternoon. "But you're obviously still upset and I just don't think it's fair on the patients, or you, to carry on." John had just nodded. "Give yourself time, and try to... get on top of things." Sarah had told him gently. Still, even 'gentle' sounded like 'agony' to him now. He had got used to it. He was numbed._

Now, 'mysterious' sums of money appeared in his bank account monthly and he didn't even have to go outside to order food anymore. A laptop was a useful thing. The only time he ever went outside now was to see his friend's grave or to walk somewhere random. Despite this, he hadn't put on weight. He generally forgot about food.

Of course, he did have some kind of life, albeit a stunted one that even he admitted was unbalanced. He had joined various sites online and would look at junk all day, searching for rare things that really interested him. He was included in several friendship groups online, but he hardly conversed with anyone. He was just a ghost man in the background, haunting the web as though it were the only thing he had. To be fair, it was. John daren't look around the flat at all for fear of a burst of tragic nostalgia, and he couldn't even go outside because it seemed so huge.

It hadn't been long after the incident before John had developed mild agoraphobia. He had never really enjoyed being alone anywhere, being an averagely social person, but the loss of his best friend had left him crippled in insecurity – what if Mrs Hudson was next? She was getting on a bit, but what if she died too? What if Lestrade was killed on some idiotic case? He could just imagine the obituary: 'Admired D.I. Lestrade killed in action. RIP'. Then that would be the end of his social life; it would, at least, be the end of the meagre streams of conversation he tried to keep up between those two.

That was the point as well. John _was_ trying, but it wasn't doing anything. He still felt just the same as ever and there was nothing he could try that he hadn't. He had been forced to become a soldier once more.

This umpteenth week, John strode briskly to the polished grave and stood in resolute silence for over five minutes before finally constructing some kind of witty comment in his head, deconstructing it and then blurting out what he wanted.

"Sherlock." He said with difficulty. The one word – _name_ – stuck in his throat and he gulped to try to stay calm.

The grave didn't respond. Sherlock didn't suddenly emerge from behind a tree miraculously. He didn't rise from the grave or jump up behind him with a cry of 'run!' like he would have before.

As usual, John poured his heart out to the block of stone. He chuckled to himself unsmilingly. How many times had he ever called Sherlock a machine, a brick wall? Talking to a stone wasn't so different from talking to the man himself, after all.

"I still believe in you, you know," he began, stilting slightly. "I don't think I'll ever stop believing in you. It doesn't make sense. So many people have tried to tell me, to make me admit to myself that it was true, but I can't. It doesn't make sense."

Still, there was no response from the gravestone or any heavenly entities.

"They... I said it before, I know," John said quietly. "They gave me your phone. You had thrown it onto the roof just before..." John paused. "I saw you throw it behind you without even looking. You always left your phone completely free with no password, so I was surprised when I saw that there was suddenly a password. It's like with Irene again, isn't it? I am 'sher' locked. What will your password have been? I am... 'Case' locked? Believe this; I've tried all the obvious ones and they didn't work – even went through the four letter elements in the periodic table, the scientific abbreviations. I don't even know if you left me some clue, something to work it out by. I can't do what you did. I see. I don't observe."

He couldn't think whether he would be more disturbed if the ground opened and Sherlock walked out as a zombie or if he just appeared, alive and healthy as ever.

For a moment John stared at the grave silently, observing the flower holder mutely; a perforated silver shell with rain water slowly filling it and fallen petals around it. The openings seemed to stare at him and there must have been a fly trapped inside it, maybe hibernating in it. What season was it? Did flies even hibernate as such? Whatever it was sounded perfectly cheery. As he watched, a typical housefly crawled delicately from one of the fissures and he sighed.

"It's like before." He told the fly. "Exactly like before. Nothing happens to me."

He had been holding some maroon flowers of some sort, but he couldn't bring himself to go any closer to the grave, so he scattered them on the ground at his feet before slowly turning and walking away, the trace of a limp in his right leg.

The next time he came, the first thing he did was to boldly place yet another batch of flowers into the holder.

He began boldly, walking quickly and strongly to the grave before carefully kneeling to push the flowers into their slots. One was jammed, but that didn't matter. Only when the flowers were dealt with did he look up at the stone.

**SHERLOCK HOLMES**

The way it was written was painful. Bold, capitalised and gold. It should have been delicate, normal case and modestly darker than that. John hated it, but he hated it even more when he thought that was how Mycroft had considered it 'best' to represent Sherlock. His own _brother_ and he had no idea how to show him. He shuddered at the thought of whatever eulogy Mycroft might have written for a funeral and thanked God that there hadn't been one.

Now he was there, John was finding it impossible to move from this spot beneath the grave. His knees felt weak even supported fully by the ground, and he closed his eyes before snapping them suddenly open again in disgust. He was sitting above the bones and whatever remained of the flesh of his dead best friend. He was honestly there, and Sherlock was too, in a terribly different way.

Horror at everything mounted in him and John found himself almost incapable of moving until his stomach clenched. He rushed to the edge of the graveyard and vomited violently, forcing himself not to cry. Not yet.

Slowly, John made his way back to the grave, his limp now fully returned and his entire frame racked with suppressed sobs. Where was that cane now? It was back at the hospital, probably. Sherlock had cured him and they certainly hadn't imagined that he would need it back again.

Now he noticed what he had missed. There was a miniscule scrap of paper on the ground next to one abandoned petal. John picked it up tentatively, being sure to skirt around the dug up area rather than walk over it, and unfolded it.

_FAKE_

John dropped the paper and stood there, stunned.

It only took him a few moments, however, to realize what the paper, the _word,_ could mean to him, and then John Watson fled the graveyard as fast as he could with a dragging leg.

The piece of paper remained on the ground where John had dropped it until it slowly was rained into the grass.

It was far beyond the umpteenth week when John returned.

* * *

**A/N - **I haven't posted for ages. I don't even know how long. PLEASE FORGIVE ME, IF YOU ACTUALLY FOLLOW MY WORK AT ALL. I wrote this at half midnight last night (as you do) and I'm going to write part two asap. This won't be a huge long story but I get the feeling that it'll drag out longer than I expect. I hope you enjoy it :)


	2. Alone Together

Unbalanced

Part Two

* * *

When John _did_ return, it was with some difficulty. He was armed with a permanent-looking wooden cane and his gun, just in case. He stopped as soon as he was near enough to read the writing on the grave, which somehow hadn't been worn down yet. Perhaps Mycroft was keeping it that way. The bastard wasn't showing any signs of missing Sherlock, so that had better have been it. John's fists clenched involuntarily for a second.

Slowly, he made his way up to the headstone and stood stiffly by it before bending to place another set of flowers down. His last ones were gone. That, he agreed with himself, was definitely Mycroft. Dead flowers on any grave weren't pretty, but to someone as pedantic and neat as Mycroft they must have been hellishly unappealing.

Obviously, the piece of paper that had terrified him so much was gone. For days after finding it, he had refused even to open a window for fear that a sniper would be aiming at him, or one of Moriarty's henchmen leering in at him.

'Paranoia' was the word his new therapist had described it with. He called it 'cautiousness' wholeheartedly. There was no such thing as paranoia when he knew he could be shot at any moment.

Lestrade had seized the first chance he'd got to speak to John about how he would have to live now.

"_John," he said. "John, look at me." The grieving man unwillingly looked up with bleary eyes and met the detective inspector's gaze. Lestrade shivered slightly. The man was a mess, and he hardly even looked like he was living voluntarily anymore. He had allowed John almost two weeks alone before this meeting, which had had to be a surprise, seeing as John refused to answer his phone._

"_After what happened," he began. "There will obviously have been uproar in the criminal world. Lots of them will be angry at 'Moriarty', who we now know is called Brook-"_

"_No." John had stated flatly. "Moriarty was real. You should know that, Greg." Sighing, Lestrade had finished._

"_Okay, well... many of them will be angry at him, and they'll be angry at Sherlock too." He gauged John's reaction to the name briefly, but there was none. Nothing showed, not even a flicker of recognition or sorrow. This was even scarier than that; John Watson looked devoid, and that was the only word he could possibly think of to describe him. "He promised lots of people money, drugs, and things like that-"_

"_Lestrade," John said. "I know they'll come for me." Lestrade sat in silence for a moment before rising from the sofa and walking slowly to the door. John was in the armchair, but he hadn't let Lestrade sit in the other chair – Sherlock's. _

"_John..." he sighed as he put his hand on the door. "I know this is very hard to accept after living with Sherlock for so long, but he wasn't telling any of us the truth. You need to..." Lestrade stopped once he saw John had finally cracked and his face was now crumpling from its collected, dark mask. _

"_Greg," John filled the silence tearfully. "I..." He paled suddenly and brought his knees up to his chest, staring at the chair opposite. "Don't tell me he was a fake," he whispered. "Please don't, because I know he isn- wasn't." His gaze remained stubbornly on the chair, even though by now he couldn't have seen anything through his tears. It was strangely brave of him not to let a single one escape his eye. _

"_Okay." Lestrade said, nodding slowly. "It __**will**__ get better, John. I promise. Just... be careful as you can."_

Well, Lestrade had asked him to be careful, so that was what he was doing. He wasn't taking chances; yes, he knew he was mentally unstable, as he was constantly assured this was the reason he couldn't accept Sherlock's false tales, but that didn't mean he was irresponsible enough to get shot and Jesus Christ, wouldn't they leave him alone at this point? He wanted to breathe, needed to, and he couldn't because of all the bloody people around him, crowding him, telling him to be okay, telling him he _would _be okay when he knew perfectly well that he wouldn't be okay for some time more if they didn't piss off at long last and let him get over his DEAD BEST FRIEND.

After a few outbursts of this kind, his counsellor had become rather too worried and ended up making him leave the flat and stay with a friend. John had laughed and asked which friend to go to, seeing as he didn't have any anymore, but she had just sat there in stony silence, waiting for him to think of someone.

Somehow he had ended up going to stay with Lestrade. He couldn't have stayed with Sarah after she both dumped and sacked him, and he already practically lived with Mrs Hudson, so obviously that wouldn't work. Mycroft was completely out of the question, and so was Mike Stamford. John hardly knew him enough to call him a friend anymore, although he grudgingly respected him for introducing him to Sherlock. Without Mike, he probably would have done something stupid like shoot himself by now. At least he had managed to delay it slightly.

After their last meeting, going to see Greg and ask such a big favour was awkward, but he managed it and Lestrade had given him the spare room in his house. The sudden shift of scenery was both refreshing and daunting; it reminded him of the constant moves in his army days and he woke up in terror for the first few nights. The first night had been the worst, because he had woken up at almost two in the morning and truly believed he was back in some horrible building abandoned for the war. He had just woken up, looked around in the dark, not recognised where he was and shouted.

Lestrade had barged into the room and tried to calm him down, of course, and he eventually managed, but not before John had completely panicked as the weight of war memories and Sherlock's death came crashing down on him. It had taken a good five minutes for him to understand where he was and another ten for him to stop shuddering with silent tears and finally turn over and try to sleep again. He had resorted to using his sleeping pills again, which hadn't been necessary since he had first left the war effort. The memory even of that made his hands shake as the drug set in. He only dreamed fitfully as well, shocked by his old nightmares blended with memories of blood spattered pavements.

Slowly but surely, John had recovered his senses and after two weeks was living harmoniously, if slightly tentatively, with Greg. Their routine was simple. Greg would get up early and go to work, always leaving a note telling him where he could call him that day. He had become a surprisingly close companion, even if they weren't friends like he and Sherlock had been. Greg looked after him, and in return, John did the chores of cooking, cleaning the house and washing up. It was oddly reminiscent of his and Sherlock's most domestic days and John liked the nostalgia. It was worth feeling happy momentarily to have nightmares.

Now he was finally back at the gravestone and thinking slightly more rationally. Slightly was better than not at all, in his opinion, regardless of what anyone else thought. This time he didn't speak, but he stood in dumbstruck silence for a few moments, just _thinking_ what he wanted to say.

It took him minutes to realize that he wouldn't get anywhere just by thinking about it at the grave, so he left reluctantly. He didn't know why he was even reluctant, but it was there, and at least it was an emotion other than sadness for once.

When he got back to Greg's house, he worked out why he'd been reluctant. He had almost _wanted_ something dangerous to happen. He had been scared stiff when he had seen the weird note last time, but that was the kind of feeling being on a case with Sherlock had always given him. That was the feeling he missed – the adrenaline of pure oblivious fear that naturally accompanied Sherlock like a dog.

Lestrade didn't know about the note. If he had found out somehow, John would never have been let back to visit Sherlock's grave. Even staying away from the memories this long had given John his limp once more, let alone his nightmares. The new cane had been bought by Mycroft, oddly, and looked expensive (typically), but was a great help to him. It had arrived before the cheap aluminium one from the hospital and had his initials engraved into the gold band at the base of the handle. Nice to know you're being watched by some persistent older brother, John had thought sarcastically, although he had resentfully accepted the cane. He had to. If he hadn't taken it from the man at the doorstep one morning, he would have been resigned to staying in bed and not getting up.

There was nothing to stop John going whenever he wanted, so he felt that that, at least, was his choice. He hadn't **chosen** for Moriarty to be so incredibly screwed up, hadn't **chosen** for Sherlock to fall into whatever trap had been placed, and he definitely hadn't chosen for him to have to die because of it. That _was_ why he'd died, and John refused to accept any other explanation.

Sherlock had not been a fake. Moriarty had been oh-so real, and Rich Brook a total fake.

Whatever anybody ever said, whether he ever got an explanation, John believed in Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes alone.

* * *

**A/N –** If you're reading this then hello and thanks! This is my longest story (online) so far, and it was very spontaneous, so I'm glad people like it. I've written ones that are much longer, but when I write long stories I tend to not finish them. I got to chapter 56 of one and got stuck, to the annoyance of my friends, and I'm on page 37 of another and am stuck. Again. That one will probably end up on here too at some point, and that one is an angst-y, fluffy and (WARNING!) slash-y John/Sherlock fic, so that should be good

Also, occasionally my writing will change style slightly between parts/chapters, so... sorry. It does that depending on what I read and stuff. I'm reading Pride and Prejudice again right now, so hopefully the change isn't too obvious. It probably isn't and I'm probably making it up, but just in case, sorry.

Please review and give me some feedback, because it motivates me so much and honestly will make me faster. Hopefully I will actually finish this one. If I don't, I give you free reign to send me rude messages. Well, not _too_ rude. Hopefully... Anyway, thank you for reading. Also, thanks for putting up with this extremely long author's note. I do this a lot; rambling. I'm sorry.

Jess


	3. The Other

Unbalanced

Part Three

* * *

After that, life was relatively boring. No more notes, and definitely no snipers. Greg was... Greg. John was John (even if he didn't feel like it). The grave was... stone. It always seemed to surprise him when he remembered. Somehow, he had become more and more used to it until finally, it seemed as though Sherlock was just ducked behind it, out of sight, and he was talking to him.

He preferred that idea to the true one.

Dead.

Buried.

Gone.

Various torturing words floated vainly through John's mind as though they had a right to be there when he was in so much pain. They didn't.

He remembered his last therapy session; these had become fifty minute slots of pure, unadulterated stress. Ella seemed to be driving down the wrong path and driving him even further down his.

"_John, you need to realize that he will not be coming back." Ella said softly, never thinking it was a bad idea. She had experience and knew what this kind of man needed. He needed to be shocked. He was stuck in what was fairly obviously a depressive, lethargic state, and he needed to be jolted back into his daily routines, none of which his friend and monitor, Greg, said were happening. Yes, rituals of chores were good, but mechanical and thoughtless. John needed to concentrate on something. Work, if he had it, was a good option._

"_I... know." John replied quietly. She could already hear how hard it was for him to say, and they were only ten minutes into the session._

_Ella regarded Mr Watson coolly before she replied._

"_I know it's hard." She assured him._

"_Yes." John's face didn't change at all._

"_You need to say it to yourself as well as me, though. You do know that, don't you?" she specified. Anyone could see he wasn't concentrating. It had taken three months for him to even be able to say Sherlock's name for the first time since the incident. _

_John stared, blankly, opening his mouth slowly before snapping it shut and shaking his head pitifully. _

"_I'm sorry..." he said, cupping a shaking hand over his mouth. She noted it in John's log, ready to use later on._

"_Don't worry." She said calmly. "Everybody hurts."_

That was the point where John was shaken from his unpleasant reverie by a shrill, loud ringing. It took a few seconds for him to register this odd event.

What the- oh, phone. Phone? No one phones me...

John picked the rarely-used object from his pocket and pressed accepted the call just to shut it up before glancing at the caller ID and nearly stumbling at the result. Mycroft Holmes was phoning him.

"Hello?" he answered timidly. There was no excess sound from the other sound of the line except a faint, low roaring. A car, then? Probably.

"John." Mycroft replied. It had been so long since John had heard his (that TRAITOR'S) voice that he was slightly unused to it. "How are you?" John gaped to himself before he replied. This was different to say the _least_.

"I'm okay." John lied slowly. "Um, you?" he asked purely from the shredded remnants of his manners towards this man, bemused. His feelings for Mycroft were slightly confusing. Firstly, there was the fact that he obviously did care about Sherlock – all the tracking, all the phone calls, all the unread texts _("Delete it.")_ had to count for something at least – but that he had still betrayed him to Jim Moriarty. How on earth was one heart supposed to confront that mess?

"Very well, thank you." Mycroft Holmes. The mysterious... not _person_. Mycroft wasn't truly a person in his eyes. More of an influence. Like a drug, perhaps. People didn't notice his poison until it was too late to untangle themselves from him. "I wonder whether you would like to visit the Diogenes Club once more." John didn't respond to that. Why would he want to...?

"John?" Mycroft sighed. "You have expressed your feelings about me vividly before, but I want to bridge that gap and for you to forgive me." Anger rose in John's chest slowly. "I would prefer to be on your side this-" The anger bubbled over faster than ever before.

"Not everything is about _sides_, Mycroft," John spat. "Now, I don't know how it works for you in government, but in real life, people aren't on sides. They don't just pick who they prefer out of two people and they **definitely** don't just apologize diplomatically and get their way."

A crackling from the other end of the line reverberated through what felt like John's entire skull but was obviously not. If it had been, he would have been hurting physically. This was just his usual, dull, aching sensation.

"John..." Mycroft's voice seemed to falter. Sentiment?

"No, Mycroft. I cannot... I just can't..." The anger slowly ebbed away, replaced by something more like emptiness. It was familiar. "I just can't _do_ this anymore!" John cried suddenly, probably startling Mycroft and maybe even calling Greg from upstairs.

"John-" Mycroft attempted to interrupt but some kind of floodgate had been opened. Even as he burst into hoarse shouts, John was ashamed. **Of all the people to open up to, it had to be Mycroft Holmes, didn't it?** His mind chastised him and it spurred him further on.

"I can't deal with HIM yet, let alone YOU trying to be all civil and nice and saying sorry and trying to- to make it up to me!" John felt a few tears slip from his eyes. "It- no, but why did he DO that to me? Why would he...? He wasn't a bloody fake, so why the hell did he kill himself? Oh, God, please, bring him back or something, just stop it, _stop_ it now, Mycroft, please-" The volume of John's voice raised until suddenly his voice cracked and he was reduced to sitting down heavily and leaning over. The phone was forgotten, Mycroft's voice buzzing insistently from its speakers and Greg's footsteps thundering downstairs.

"John?" he cried as he came in and saw John in his slump. "John, what-" He picked up the phone. "Hello? Oh, God... No, no, it's... yeah, I see... I'll call back, thanks. Bye."

While Lestrade had his short conversation with Mycroft, John's breathing was hitching. His sobs were lasting so long and taking so much **effort** that he hardly had time to breathe. He let himself crumple onto the floor as Greg reached out for him and he saw black spots dancing across the room. Maybe this was what dying was like. Not for Sherlock, of course. For Sherlock it would have been sudden, brief, painless. This was arduous, agonising... drawn out. Torture the dead man's soul just a little more. Rip out his heart and throw it off another building.

Black spots. They reminded him of that coat – what had it cost? Some ridiculous amount. £1,350 or something like that. Sherlock's most costly item of clothing and made of something almost terrifyingly soft and firm. It was even downy to the touch, but not so that dust and dirt would cling to the fibres. It was perfect.

Did that make the black spots perfect as well? Could that be what dying was like? Luxurious, soft, firm, downy, perfect... and terrifying. John could almost bring himself to accept the fear. He wasn't particularly religious, but he was sure that if there was a heaven, Sherlock would be there, regardless of who had died and who had cried. John would join him whenever he could.

Slowly, he tore his gaze from the dancing figures around him and back onto Greg's blurred face. Was he shouting? He knew he was still crying.

There was a sudden piercing sensation in his chest and the black spots overwhelmed his vision, growing and growing until they covered everything in dark, cool weakness. Even as he 'died', John knew he would soldier on. Ironic, the phrase 'soldier on'. He'd _done_ his time at war, so how was this fair? This pain was _worse_.

He imagined that when he woke up, everything would start again and that everything would fall into place. It kept him sane; his mantra. He thought it to himself every evening and it never happened, but he had reckless trust that one day it would – it would _have_ to – get better. Whether he could wait that long or not was another question.

"_Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

* * *

_****_**A/N - **This chapter is a little bit shorter than the others, but... oh well. It was a harder one to write because of the angst. It's difficult not to make these cheesy! Also, because I want the quality of this story to stay up, I probably won't be posting as often now. I hope you stay with me because otherwise this might just flop and be abandoned :( Anyway, thank you for reading and please review!

Jess x


	4. Tied And Bound

Unbalanced

Part Four

* * *

Greg Lestrade had been worried about John Watson ever since Sherlock Holmes had been taken away from him on a stretcher.

What were you supposed to do with a catatonically depressed friend? It was hard enough for him to deal with the steadily rising crime rate these days, let alone a man who was now passed out on his sofa. He had already covered John's prone body with a blanket (Orange; how ironic.) and made sure he wasn't about to fall off. Next, he rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a teabag. Luckily, he had been about to boil the kettle when he had heard John's pained cries to Mycroft Holmes (of all people), so he didn't have much to do except wait for it to boil.

By the time the tea was ready, John seemed to be stirring slightly, but not nearly enough to be healthy. Lestrade admitted that John's stress levels were probably _slightly_ higher than his (or a lot higher), with the main difference being that his troubles were continuing and John's were long gone.

All except Mycroft. There was nothing vaguely helpful about his call. Even if Greg wasn't against Mycroft, seeing as he was only wrong according to John, who obviously believed that Sherlock was still real, it was inconvenient and worrying to have his housemate faint from sheer stress just because of a phone call. What the hell had the other Holmes even _said_ to him to get such a reaction? There hadn't been much time for swapping details in their brief call.

"Hello?" he had answered the phone, confused beyond confusion.

"This is Mycroft Holmes. What's happened to John?" replied a viciously pleasant voice that Lestrade had only encountered a few times. More than a few, if he was really honest. Working with one Holmes brother was practically impossible. They were a package deal, even if they didn't realize themselves.

"Oh, God..." Greg had groaned, beginning to understand. He looked down; John was shivering and there were tears in his eyes, although they weren't falling.

"Is he alright, Gregory?" asked Mycroft. "Should I-"

"No, no, it's..." Lestrade had replied in shock.

"I was merely inviting him to meet me. I can guess that he didn't take it well." Mycroft replied with a sigh. Really?

"Yeah, I see... I'll call back, thanks. Bye." Lestrade answered, fumbling with the screen of the phone whilst trying to see how John was. He hung up before Mycroft could reply, and could tell he wouldn't be in Mycroft's good books for a while. He could feel the cold shoulder emanating through London (or wherever he was) already.

"John?" he asked, feeling stupid and panicky as he shook John's shoulder gently. It hadn't taken long for him to notice that John wasn't answering and to hoist him into his arms and lower him onto the sofa. He was surprised at how low John's weight was. Had he always been so skinny?

Now, John was almost awake. Lestrade pulled up a chair and sat beside his head, nursing the cup of tea. **If he doesn't wake in one or two more minutes, I'll call the ambulance,** he promised himself. **This probably isn't a physical problem.** Even he knew that much.

Unconscious, John looked limp and tired. The blanket practically swamped his square frame, and there were tears now drying on his face. His face was surprisingly gaunt, now that Lestrade came to think about it, and he cursed his job for needing him away all day. No wonder he hadn't seen the obvious! The only time he saw John for real was when they ate at dinner and when they happened to meet. Apart from that, Lestrade was asleep and exhausted and John was alone in his room.

John's arm slipped from the blanket and his t-shirt bunched around his shoulder. Even his arms were thinner than Lestrade was used to. Had John even eaten anything apart from what he cooked for him and Lestrade recently?

Damn his job.

He felt a pang of guilt as John's face creased in apparent concentration and he almost reached out and attempted to wake him himself just to let him escape the nightmare, but then he realized that people weren't supposed to wake someone by doing that... were they? If his and John's places were swapped now, John would be absolutely fine to take care of this situation, but Lestrade was a detective inspector, not a 'molly-coddler', as he had used to call doctors. That was long before he had met John Watson.

The way he had managed to 'tame' Sherlock Holmes was astounding. So many people had chastised the man and instructed him in etiquette, yet no one except John could ever hold his attention. He guessed that Mycroft had tried, at least. The fact that he had, obviously, failed, was terrifying.

"Greg..." John's brow furrowed more as he mumbled the name. Lestrade bent over him anxiously, feeling silly (still) and made a shocked sound of some sort.

"John, I'm here. Can you hear?" he asked. Just in case. There was some kind of grunt in reply, which Greg took as a yes.

"Tea?" Another mumble. Lestrade blinked and then remembered the tea that was cradled in his hands.

"Yeah, there's some here if you can sit up." He assured John. Slowly but surely, John levered himself up with Lestrade's help. He had to be careful not to spill the tea, so that was a chore.

How had he not noticed this going on? So much must have passed beneath his nose... Damn, damn, _damn_ his job! Even if he wasn't the absolute closest to John, he still cared for him, especially since his psychiatrist had entrusted John to his care. This was his mission now – to heal the broken man. The dead man.

"Thanks," John smiled weakly as Lestrade passed him the tea carefully. He noted that John was only using his right hand to drink the tea, as the left was shaking. A side effect of the fainting, he supposed. They sat in silence while John regained some portion of his strength and sipped at the tea cautiously.

He seemed brittle, fragile, delicate... or was it just that John was already broken and just avoiding the shards he had fallen into? Lestrade remembered having wounds with glass shards embedded in them and winced at the memories.

"So," Lestrade said into the thick silence. It seemed as though John's mood was now seeping into the walls of his house. "Are you okay?" John nodded quickly, nearly slopping his tea over the rim of his cup.

"Yeah, I'm fine now. That was just a little lapse or something." John chuckled, but the sound was too hysterical and high pitched for it to be real.

"Don't lie, you idiot." Lestrade smiled gently. "I know you're not. Physically fine, then?" John nodded, a glum expression on his face. Did the man honestly think himself a liar?

"So what was Mycroft saying?" Lestrade asked. After he said it and John's face paled, the thought struck him that it might not be a good idea to ask. **Tactless.**

"Oh, nothing much." John replied. Of _course_, John – I mean, you only fainted! "He just asked me to the Diogenes Club." Lestrade's eyebrows rose involuntarily. He had heard stories about the individuals who accessed the club and to be invited, he had gathered, was something of an honour. He had never been.

"That's what Mycroft said, too." Lestrade paused. "Nothing else?"

"No." John replied stonily. "But it was so surreal I passed out." He smiled. Another try for laughter, then.

"'Surreal'?" he asked. A phone call wasn't 'surreal' to _him_, at least.

"No one ever phones my mobile... or me, in general." John explained, and Lestrade nodded in understanding. "On top of that... well, it was Mycroft bloody Holmes, wasn't it?"

"I see." Greg sighed. "Just... stress?" He felt obliged to make sure there hadn't been any weird threatening going on over the phone. He knew how 'well' those two got on.

There was a curt nod from John and then he yawned. Lestrade stood.

"You want to go to your room?" he asked.

"Yeah, thanks." John answered gratefully. He began to try to stand, but even to Lestrade that seemed silly. He knew _some_ things about fainting.

It was caused by blood loss.

Blood loss affected the brain.

The largest 'blood store' in the body was the thighs.

Standing wouldn't direct blood upwards to the head, would it?

Therefore, John walking to his room in his current condition was a stupid idea and Greg lifted him into the air again without warning. There was no way that John would ever allow him to be carried voluntarily, so by surprise was the only way to do it.

To _his_ surprise, John didn't seem overly bothered and just looked at Lestrade somewhat petulantly as they went upstairs together. Lestrade shifted the small weight around in his arms and wondered how long John's malnutrition had been going on.

Lestrade hadn't seen John's room for about a month, but when it had been assigned to him, there had been various pictures on the walls and not much else. Lestrade's room, to contrast, was what he had dubbed 'organised chaos'.

When he walked in, he was shocked to see how abnormally little the room had changed. The draws were closed and there were no clothes lying around anywhere. The suitcase John had brought was shoved under the bed. The pictures were all the same and the bed was even made in the exact same way as when Lestrade had given it to John. A few words sprung to mind as he wondered why it was all the same.

_Pedantic?_

_OCD?_

_Boredom?_

They all worried him. Being pedantic, having OCD and being bored were not good things in his book.

Being pedantic had led Sherlock to create immensely complex and impossibly undetectable crimes for himself to solve. Having OCD was _never_ a good thing, although that was one thing Sherlock had never had (as far as he knew). Being bored had led Sherlock to the crimes and to shooting holes in walls. There were no holes in the walls here, so that was something.

Lestrade just hoped John wouldn't go down the same route as Sherlock – passing the time illegally. Drugs were too common in the darker streets of London, however hard they sought out dealers, and John wasn't too bothered about his health now, seeing how much his weight had dropped.

The other options for John still weren't that positive.

Become a criminal of some sort.

Do drugs.

Lestrade's least favourite – commit suicide.

It looked as though John was trapped and even he could see it. John must have realized so long ago. Judging by the blank, chilling look on his face now, John was used to it.

Greg had never really believed in fate, but if it did exist, he prayed that it would be kind to John Watson.

* * *

**A/N – **Thanks again for reading, and... yeah, that's about it. Please review or I'll be sad :c

Jess


	5. Second Chance

Unbalanced

Part Five

* * *

John, lying on his bed, tried to sum up what was running through his mind, but however hard he tried, failed. That was like everything he had ever really wanted to do, though. Why would it change now? Luck was unforgiving.

He was shaken and that was definite. How could he not be shaken? Mortified, as well; Greg would look at him in that sad, pitying way like everyone else, now. He had been kind to him, but now would start the sensitivity, the dancing around those untouchable topics _("I like to watch you dance.") _and being too careful. That was what had made him join the army, when it came down to it.

His mother had been a picky, ambitious, and most of all, _careful_ woman and always wanted him to really achieve things. Her restraint had lead to his love of danger.

**Well, look at me now, mum. Have I achieved enough yet? **

When John had decided to follow through with sciences and doctorates, his mother had been utterly thrilled and maybe even approved of him. He had always loved her, even though she put him down daily; she was his mum and he couldn't just forget all the games, the talks and the support.

On the other hand, his dad had been a relaxed man who just wanted John to do something good with his life. However, he had been too relaxed at times and set what his mother had called a bad example to John and Harry when they were growing up. He would stumble in at past midnight with beer on his breath sometimes, maybe even waking them as he crashed into their parents' bedroom.

Harry.

Her lifestyle choices were not savoury to her mother, who had been insistent on having at least two grandchildren, even if she never stated it. When Harry had come out to the family over dinner, Mrs Watson had leaned back and forced a smile on her face. John had seen it himself and his respect for her had dropped an inch or two. Life was not and is not about continuing the human race (to John at least; he couldn't exactly speak for all the religious people on earth), but about being _happy_.

That was all Harry had ever wanted for her family – happiness. She may have wrecked her own life with alcohol, like her father, but that didn't mean she wanted them to burn with her.

**Look at me now, Harry, mum, dad. I haven't done anything you wanted me to.**

John couldn't stop these kinds of thoughts echoing through his subconscious and wondered what it was all for. They slogged away at school for years, only to slog away at a job for years, only to be old and unable to enjoy life, only to die. Why wait to die, anyway? If there was nothing left on earth for him, why would he stay?

Knock, knock. The weak booming shattered the misty wall in his head.

"Come in," John called wearily to Lestrade.

The silver-haired man quietly entered his bedroom and sat at the foot of his bed.

"John, mate," he began, and immediately John knew what was about to be said. "I know you're having a tough time and this isn't easy for you, but hear me out."

"It's okay. I understand." John replied, resigned. He had been waiting for Greg to kick him out since he moved in. Greg took a breath and continued.

"When Mycroft phoned, he asked you to the Club; right?" he asked. John frowned slightly. This wasn't what he had expected.

"Yeah, he did." He responded cautiously. Lestrade held out the phone.

"Well... are you going to go?" he asked. John frowned even more. What had this got to do with anything?

Oh. Then he realized. Greg wasn't just asking if he was going to the Diogenes Club – he was asking if he would live with Mycroft.

"To the Club..." he murmured contemplatively. "Maybe." It wouldn't change anything, but perhaps it would make Mycroft happy. Greg stood unexpectedly.

"Okay, well, if you need help deciding or-"

"Wait, aren't you asking me to...?" John trailed off, waiting for Lestrade to finish his question, but the man never did.

"To... what?" he asked, frowning deeply.

"I thought you were asking me to move in with him or something," John muttered, feeling embarrassed now. "Don't worry; I know I must be a nuisance at the moment." A sense of utter helplessness washed over him.

"No, no, of course not!" Greg cried. "You're fine here, and you aren't a nuisance."

"Oh, okay." John couldn't think what else to say.

"John," Greg said, sitting back down. "None of this is your fault." He assured John slowly. But it was, wasn't it? If he hadn't fallen for that call and left Sherlock alone at St Bart's then there would have _been_ no death that day. It _was_ his fault. The reality of it was crushingly obvious. "I promise it isn't." Greg pressed, but John just slowly shook his head.

"You can't..." he faltered. "You can't say that." His voice was a feeble whisper and he closed his eyes in an attempt to avoid the embarrassment he felt at breaking down in front of Greg for a second time.

"I can." He replied. "Even if you had stayed, Sherlock would have sent you on an 'urgent' errand or offended you to make you leave, and then he would have gone anyway. You couldn't have known."

"But that's the point!" John jerked up from the bed and swayed as blood rushed through his head. "I lived with him for a year and he never, ever seemed depressed! Sad, yes, but never depressed. _I_ was more depressed than him and _I_ was recovered, so how could I have not noticed it? He didn't keep things like that from me." He swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he ended up sitting next to his friend.

"You can't always tell, John." Lestrade sighed (probably annoyed at his ranting and raving). "People have different... coping mechanisms, and Sherlock's was obviously to hide it all away and try to help himself."

"No." John stated firmly. "He wouldn't have been able to hide all that from me." This was the one thing he was sure of anymore. "Somehow, Moriarty _made_ him jump."

"Okay." Greg said shortly (definitely annoyed, then) and changed the subject. "Do you think you'll meet Mycroft?"

"I'll probably end up meeting him, yes." John replied. How could he ever deny a Holmes after what had happened months ago? The masochistic allure of Mycroft Holmes would draw him in one day and he could tell already. Why delay?

"Would you like to phone him yourself, or shall I call?" John noticed the phone next to Lestrade now.

"I think that..." he paused. Did he really want to meet the traitor? Surely he didn't; he was the reason Moriarty had been able to kill Sherlock, anyway, so... "I'll call." He finished feebly, but he knew that if anyone was to contact Mycroft about this, it would be him. Greg Lestrade was never to have contact with him if he could help it.

"Okay, because he called back and was asking." Greg sighed (in relief, this time) and held out the phone. John took it.

"Thanks," he said, although he wasn't truly thankful. The conflicting feelings he had concerning Mycroft made it impossible to feel anything clearly enough to name it. With a nod, Greg left and there was nothing left for him to do but dial. He glanced at the time the phone displayed briefly and saw that it was only about five in the afternoon. How long had he been unconscious for?

"Greg," he was greeted.

"No, er..." he stuttered. "This is John." There was an intake of breath from the end of the line, as though Mycroft hadn't suspected John to call, which to be fair, he probably hadn't, and for good reason.

"Oh, hello, John." Mycroft corrected himself. "I am sorry for whatever happened earlier."

"Thank you." John said. Maybe he wasn't completely horrible (well, that he'd already known) and just made a mistake. Even if it was true, though, he couldn't help a grudge. His best friend and Mycroft's _brother_ had died because of said mistake.

"Has Gregory explained my offer to you again?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," John responded. "And I've decided I would like to meet you." Well, not necessarily 'like', but still. It was a phrase.

"Ah; I'm glad you've changed your mind." Said Mycroft. "Would you like to stay the night? I can book you a room nearby." This was unexpected, but John decided to go with it. If he was going to be taken in again, he might as well stay in a five-star hotel while he did it.

"That would be nice, actually." John winced at himself. He had always hated the word 'nice'. 'Washy', his primary school teacher had called it.

"Pack a bag and I'll send a car. When might you be ready?" Mycroft queried. John smirked. He had everything organised in his room, and his suitcase was underneath where he was sitting, so packing wouldn't be a problem.

"Half an hour or so would be fine." He assured Mycroft.

"I'll meet you in the entrance to the Club." Said the other man. "I look forward to seeing you."

"Thanks again," said John. "Bye." There was a click as Mycroft hung up. He ended the call and stared around the room momentarily before realizing that he had half an hour to pack and sluggishly standing and dragging his case from under the bed.

A turn of events, he must say. His feelings towards Mycroft were still mainly negative, but at least now there was a chance to resolve them.

It took him fifteen minutes to pack and another ten to shower. He waited patiently by the door for the remaining five ("Yeah, I'm staying the night at some hotel...") and then opened the door as the crescendo of an expensive purr slowly approached the house.

Anthea (or whatever her real name was) wasn't there, but he could tell just by the black gloss and expensive make that this was Mycroft's vehicle. The impeccable timing was another dead giveaway.

As the car swept down the street, he received a text.

_From: Mycroft Holmes_

_Message: If you choose to forgive me tonight, I will be greatly obliged. Thank you for agreeing to visit me. I'm sorry. – MH_

John smirked and closed the message, wondering what kind of dental surgery anyone would possibly have to prevent them speaking at half past five in the afternoon.

* * *

**A/N –** Hehehe; I hope the slight bit of humour dotted at the end of this chapter will make up for some of the angst coming up. Well, it will be coming up unless I change my mind. I don't plan my stories really, so they go wherever the hell they like. Please, please review. I have so many hits (well, it's a lot to me) but hardly any reviews. I need encouragement, guys! To those who _have_ reviewed, thank you so much. Thanks for reading! - Jess


	6. Infiltrating

Unbalanced

Part Six

* * *

The architectural _monument_ that was the Diogenes Club was clever. It was spotless and structured enough to scream something along the lines of 'GO AWAY, PEASANTS' to the majority of the world, while still retaining the subtlety it needed to blend into its street. John hadn't really realized this on his previous visits. It was probably because of the various things he had been distracted by at the time: helping Mycroft with a national-scale case, curiosity and Sherlock.

This time, John was there purely to be there and distractions were unusually lacking. Normally Sherlock managed to infiltrate his mind at least once every few minutes and stay there for even more, but this time as he stared up at the building, he could only think of Mycroft.

Hadn't he obsessed over this enough? He asked himself the one question continuously but couldn't make up his mind about the man. It was hard enough to place any _facts_ about Mycroft, let alone inferences or feelings. He hardly had anything to go on except that he was Sherlock's brother, was practically the British government and had bargained with Moriarty, resulting in Sherlock's death. Not suicide, though. Just death.

The door of the Club was solid and usual enough, except for the polished gleam that most London doors lacked, and emanated something John found vaguely ominous. He couldn't just walk away, though, and he glanced back at the purring black car that was waiting for him to enter before raising his hand to ring the doorbell.

No sound emitted from inside, but after just ten seconds or so, a man in an expensive suit and gloves opened the door. A butler? John hadn't really expected any less, to be honest, but he still wasn't accustomed to going to someone's house and finding a butler instead of them. Mycroft was, then, keeping up his distinctly dignified persona.

"I'm here to see... Mycroft Holmes." John stuttered the sentence out slowly, surprised at how terrified he was. The agoraphobia had been enough, but now he seemed to be scared of strangers too. Was that normal? Still, he should have accepted that it was a possibility, seeing as how he only ever spoke to Lestrade now. Cash machines most definitely didn't count.

The butler, as he thought this through, nodded courteously and ushered him inside silently. The only sound was the door closing behind him with a click and the faint tapping of a keyboard from what must have been an office. John had been to the Club enough to know his own way to Mycroft's rooms, but still the butler escorted him there; security was everything in a place where national secrets might be shared and missile plans debated.

The butler knocked on Mycroft's door and left as a muffled recognition sounded through the wood. Luckily, this allowed John a few moments of composure (or whatever was closest to it) before he entered.

Inside, the room was just the same as John had last seen it, although there was slightly more clutter. What with the world's only consulting detective dead and/or gone, crime was on the rise and this, apparently, was affecting even Mycroft's job. John felt a stab of cruel pleasure. Mycroft finally had to work. This was immediately (almost) smothered by a blanket of understanding. Mycroft had always had to work, and Sherlock had even confirmed it himself.

"_Oh, and try not to start a war..." Sherlock was saying. John shot him a look but remained silent. "You know what it does to the traffic."_

"Hello, John." Mycroft greeted him with a slightly leery smile, standing by his leather chair. There was a half-empty glass of water on his desk among the many scattered papers and a full one across from Mycroft's side, though there were also drops of water _on_ the papers. His hair was smoothed back neatly as usual, though a small, short lock had escaped at the front, creating a miniscule cowlick that allowed John a disturbing insight as to what Mycroft might have looked like as a child.

"Mycroft." John forced. He was having trouble speaking slightly. This was the first individual he had spoken to in person except for Greg for a long time now. How long it had been, John had forgotten, and that almost worried him, though not quite. He had reasons to be a recluse.

"I trust you are well now?" Mycroft smiled again, and it was almost disconcerting. Mycroft was more of a sociopath than he thought he was.

"Y-yes, I'm okay now." 'Okay', John had said. Not 'fine', or 'good'. Just 'okay'. That was honestly the best anyone could expect of him for now.

There was a slow paced pause and then Mycroft approached John cautiously.

"Well, I assume you hate me." he said regretfully. John gave a nod that conveyed a message in neither the positive or negative, and Mycroft frowned slightly, though his childish grin never shifted. "Don't you?"

"Yes," John said. "And no." Mycroft inclined his head, letting John explain. "You gave Moriarty information and that led to Sherlock's death. That was wrong." John stated plainly, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

"Yes," Mycroft replied, the smile fading. "I've apologized for that, but I understand if you cannot forgive me." John nodded, feeling increasingly incapable of speech.

"Yet you were his brother and you _did_... care for him." He continued. "From what I've heard, you helped stop him smoking and doing drugs. You paid off his debts and kept him eating, kept him... you kept him alive while I wasn't there to do it."

"I tried." Mycroft sighed. "Unfortunately, I made a mistake I couldn't take back and couldn't be there for him when it was necessary. I could have saved him, but only he knew all the details of Moriarty's plan. It was directed at him, and so only he understood what would happen."

"That's my dilemma, Mycroft." John replied sadly. "You tried to help him, but you were the one who caused his death as well."

"I see." Mycroft responded coolly. He didn't seem upset – merely analytical and cold as usual. Now that the unusual smile was gone, he looked exactly the same as ever, if a little less well groomed. Now it was John's turn to frown. Wasn't he mourning at all? He looked around but couldn't find anything to show mourning at all. There were no photos (although to be fair, Sherlock had never been one for photos), no letters (who would they have been from, anyway? Sherlock, the 'I prefer to text' man?) or signs of discord anywhere in the room.

"Where do you live?" John asked abruptly. Mycroft's smile returned briefly, but then died away quickly.

"I would tell you, but then I would have to kill you." He said humourlessly. "Although I will tell you that it is a house of my own within London. Why?"

"Oh... I was curious. You couldn't stay here forever." John answered. The truth was that he had been questioning why Mycroft wasn't visibly mourning and wondering whether the emotion only set in at home. If he had lived with someone, then he could have understood it, although Mycroft Holmes didn't seem one for living with... John dismissed the thought. He lived alone, as John had expected, but perhaps it was just too risky to bring home life into his work. But then... still, why wasn't he showing _any_ emotion?

"It is possible," Mycroft cut into his thoughts. "Though highly unlikely. What _would_ the neighbours say?" The fact that he was actually trying to make John laugh, and that it was failing so terribly, made him laugh completely involuntarily, though not at the joke.

"So what are we going to do tonight?" John asked. "We can't just stand around making small talk, Mycroft." The man acknowledged this fact with a nod of his head, shaking the rebelling lock of hair further out of place.

"You are quite right, John." He said. "Sit, and we can reminisce."

* * *

**A/N – **I haven't posted for a while, so here you go. I got bored on Saturday night and ended up writing two chapters (this one and the next) between midnight and two in the morning. Um. Please review!

Jess


	7. Justification

Unbalanced

Part Seven

* * *

John settled down in a comfy chair and gazed around the room, waiting for Mycroft's return. The room was completely and utterly neutral, with barely a single personal touch to it apart from the books on the shelves, and even then, they were probably not there for light entertainment.

Mycroft had disappeared from the room and had been gone for around five minutes now, and so John decided to have a look around.

On the desk were papers that he guessed were top secret. Layered underneath these were papers he couldn't read, but assumed were even more secretive. He noted the glasses of water and idly traced a finger over its rim. For a moment, he considered looking in the draws of the desk, but when he bent down and looked, he saw that they each had separate locks. As he stood a slight, distinctive smell wafted past him and he paused, nostrils flaring involuntarily.

John remembered this smell from a few nights at home back when he lived with his remaining family, and the memories he was rewinding to weren't all pleasant.

_Vodka._

The scent automatically made him feel tense... maybe even scared. His father had been a peaceful man, but drink would make anyone lash out. The things vodka had done to Harry's health, also, were petrifying.

John straightened up and eyed the glasses of water again. So _this_ was Mycroft's way of mourning. The one thing that could possibly have upset him more than what he had already done. He tested both glasses briefly, and found that only Mycroft's was vodka. At least he hadn't served John vodka.

He picked up the elegantly curved glass and walked over to the curtained window. The window was locked and probably bulletproof, so tipping it out of the window was completely impossible. Instead, John simply looked around before resigning himself to the fact that he couldn't just tip it away in this room.

To solve this problem, John downed the vodka himself. The alcohol burnt slowly through his chest and he set down the glass again. He filled it with some of the water from the other glass, hoping that Mycroft would assume he had drunk some of his own, designated drink, and then sat back down to relax.

It was only another minute or so before Mycroft returned, and when he did it was with an armful of large leather-covered books that looked suspiciously old for him to be carrying around. John, by now, was feeling the effects of the vodka and was surprised, not having had it for a while, at how relaxing it was. He could forgive Mycroft _this_ sin.

John watched as Mycroft pulled up another chair and sat next to him, with the books on the floor in front of them both. He eyed them suspiciously.

"Sorry for the wait," Mycroft said. "I had to fetch these from where I had stored them." John nodded, raising his eyebrows slightly. So Mycroft felt these were valuable enough to want to store them away somewhere safe?

"What are they?" he asked. Mycroft picked the topmost one up and handed it to John, who, opening the first page, saw a title written in inky calligraphy on smooth paper.

_Sherlock Holmes – ages 0-5_

He looked back up at Mycroft sharply, still oblivious, but he said nothing, and so John tentatively turned the page and immediately gasped.

The page was taken up by several clear photos of a woman looking tired but joyful in a hospital bed, cradling something in her arms. After a moment that seemed longer than it probably was, John noticed that it was obviously a baby and was shocked to realize that it must be Sherlock. He shifted his eyes to the woman's face. She looked calm beyond her exhaustion, and despite the sheen of sweat on her brow had an air of genteel superiority that emanated mainly from her sharply cutting jaw line, softened by the curls of dark hair falling around her face. Her dark eyes shone in anticipation and noble success. It sounded far too rich for John, but it was the only way he could describe this woman. Sherlock Holmes' mother.

"Mother..." Mycroft sighed slowly. "This was, of course, before Sherlock began to stress her with dead animals. He was worse than a housecat with a mouse." John smiled incredulously.

"I..." he began, but found himself speechless momentarily. "I didn't even dare to believe that Sherlock had ever had a childhood. He seemed the kind of person who just pops into being exactly as they are, not someone who was once young and dependent."

"Well," Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't say 'dependent'. He only needed anyone else for transport, education and food." John chortled lowly as he turned to the next page, which featured a series of photos of the newborn baby swaddled in blankets as well as one picture of another boy holding the baby.

"Is that..." John faltered. "That can't be..." Mycroft winced as he followed John's eyes.

"Yes, that is me." he replied brusquely. John smiled widely and laughed again. The boy in the photo was so unlike Mycroft that it seemed impossible the two could be _related_, let alone the same person.

Young Mycroft was wearing a scruffy polo shirt and crumpled shorts. His hair was thick and dishevelled, and one of his trouser pockets was inside out. Overall, he gave off the impression of the current, three-piece-suited and umbrella-wielding Mycroft's opposite.

"Oh my God." John said. "You'll be telling me Sherlock was stupid and chubby next!" The two men shared a brief glance before both bursting into laughter. Mycroft's laugh was astonishingly pleasant, considering its rarity, and John enjoyed it as he laughed too, but slowed as he remembered the first time he had ever really _laughed _with a Holmes after his and Sherlock's first case together. The pink lady and the cabby, and the aluminium crutch (or rather, the lack of it). The moment when Sherlock Holmes, cracked and strained sociopath, had begun to slowly but surely fix John Watson, shattered and used soldier.

John tried to forget this harrowing thought and turned the next page to find a collection of photos of Sherlock in different baby outfits. Already, he had hair on his head, though it looked lighter than John had expected, and wasn't as viciously curly.

One picture stood out, because underneath it there was a caption, whereas none of the others had anything to put them into true context.

_The first smile._

He stared. The photo was slightly blurred and had obviously been done in a rush, as someone's finger was covering a portion of the lens, but Sherlock was clearly visible in the centre. He was smiling, but the reason it stunned John so much was because it was so unexpected.

Sherlock Holmes only ever smiled for a good reason – either he meant it or he was trying to achieve something desperately. John had expected him to be a solemn child who was quiet and meek, but this picture proved it otherwise, as the tiny child reached out a floundering hand to the camera and smiled gleefully.

There was no use saying that the depth John had come to know in the adult Sherlock was already hinted at in this baby's eyes, because it wasn't. It saddened him to guess at what Sherlock had experienced to achieve that depth later in life, but he couldn't help but smiling at the picture's happy atmosphere.

Mycroft, too, when he looked, was also smiling, although he seemed slightly restrained, but that could just have been his imagination.

"He was a happy child," Mycroft assured John. "Always happy."

"I'm glad. He deserved to be content, at least." John replied wistfully.

"It only began to go wrong when he reached the age of ten, really." Mycroft continued as though John had said nothing, and now his voice was strained and upset.

"Oh... how?" John asked, fearful of the answer he might get. However, Mycroft didn't say anything in way of explanation, but shook his head slightly and let out a puff of air sharply.

"I've tried to find the answer to that question for most of my life."

* * *

**A/N - **Wow, I got a lot of reviews on that last chapter and it's only been up for a while! As promised, here's the other 2 AM chapter. Thanks for favouriting/story-alerting/reviewing!

Jess


	8. Future's Opposite

Unbalanced

Part Eight

* * *

From what John could tell, Mycroft's estimate was about right. Something or other had happened when Sherlock was around ten years old. It could just have been a mental shift, though, or Sherlock maturing. At least, that was what he hoped. Mycroft had been explaining as they turned each page how Sherlock inquisitive nature had become more apparent as he grew up and how he was already interested in science, anatomy and the police by the time he was ten. However, he had initially wanted to be a pirate, having confused the jobs of a policeman and a pirate, although when he learnt what a pirate actually was, he _did_ want to do that too.

"So he wanted to be a policeman but thought they were called pirates?" he confirmed incredulously. He couldn't say they had ever discussed pirates, but he hadn't expected it.

"I'm afraid so." Mycroft said gravely. "The one time Sherlock Holmes used a word he wasn't sure of."

"Then he actually _wanted_ to be a pirate." John continued, eyebrows raised. He was seeing a vivid mental picture of the little boy in the photo album bedecked in an eye patch and ragged shorts. Mycroft nodded as confirmation.

At first, Sherlock had been an average looking boy. Of course, he was distinguishable, what with his sharp features and pale, lanky frame, even when he was little, but he didn't look out of the ordinary. John smiled and wondered if anyone could have guessed his future back then.

_His future. _It saddened John to know there was no future for this incredible man anymore whose long outgrown eyes stared out at him boldly from a pristine page.

"Did he ever mention why he became... how he was?" Mycroft asked. John thought for a moment but was resigned to shaking his head.

"I don't think so. He just said he was interested in crime and that he got involved with the business." He sighed. Now that Sherlock was gone, John was noticing all the gaping holes in his knowledge of his own flat mate, companion and best friend. Every time he noticed one it seemed that a hole was shot through _him_ too. How could he not know these things? Sherlock's favourite colour, his family history, his more obscure cases... all lost, now. He could try and track down the people Sherlock had helped, but that would take years and years. It was useless trying to know him after he was dead and gone.

John accepted that Sherlock was dead, even if it wasn't a pleasant pill to swallow in any way. To him it was as easy a task as swallowing a baby elephant whole. The only thing was that he had given in and he _could_ do it, whether he wanted to or not.

Then again, how could he _not_ believe it? He had seen it happen and the memories of that pavement and that blood still pained him every night. He had heard his voice, seen his silhouette and seen his body. He had seen the fall. There was no possible way that Sherlock would have been able to escape that trap, however hard John wished. He had thought and made countless hypotheses and theories, but had always found something to destroy his trail of feeble logic. He never had been one for working out Sherlock's cases.

That's what this was like in his mind. A case, where he was required to think backwards (a rare talent, as Sherlock had assured him) and come up with a situation from a result. All the times he had congratulated Sherlock on his amazing abilities, he had never believed he would have to be able to do it himself. Anyway, all the evidence he could possibly have used was long, long gone now. As if he had ever been able to impress Sherlock.

A wave of bitterness swept over John as he realized how insignificant he had always looked compared to Sherlock. Sherlock was his best friend, and not his idol. People always looked at him pityingly as Sherlock babbled meaningfully and John stood by in sheer awe, thinking that he was trying to beat him. He could always read the thoughts on those people's faces and the things he saw were hardly ever good.

Lots of people had thought he was a genuinely nice man, but none had really appreciated how much he helped Sherlock. He had long enough to gauge reactions. Months. After those months, he had had a shocking thought – _what if that's how Sherlock saw me? Nice, but useless?_

He shook the thought away as he stared down at the photo album blankly.

"Do you know?" he asked Mycroft. "How he got to where he is?"

"I don't know precisely where his love of the topic sprouted from, but I _do_ know how he first became involved with the police force, which set him (officially) on his way." Mycroft replied with laughter in his voice.

"Oh?" John's interest was piqued. He hadn't heard of this story.

"Coincidentally, it was Gregory Lestrade who introduced him to the world." Mycroft began, and suddenly John felt a surge of gratefulness to Greg. There was another person he had to thank for his time with Sherlock. "He happened to arrest him for being on a particular crime scene."

"No!" John groaned, putting his head in his hands briefly. "What happened?"

"Well," Mycroft looked down at another page, where there was a picture of a teenage Sherlock. "They took him to the station – or rather, they _tried._ He refused to leave until what he called 'authority' arrived. At that point it was Gregory's predecessor who was Sherlock's idea of authority. Mr Lestrade was merely a minor officer at the time who happened to be Sherlock's unfortunate escort to the police station. When the senior detective arrived, Sherlock solved the entire case."

"Oh..." John groaned. "Of course he did..."

"The detective, however, didn't want to believe that a man of nineteen could have solved it – particularly one who had just been caught trespassing – and continued to try to send Sherlock away. Luckily, Mr Lestrade held a grudge against that particular detective and took the matter to other inspectors and detectives, who all agreed that Sherlock was right. He was only held in jail for one day before they had to let him go."

"Which case was this?" John asked, curious.

"I'm afraid I can't quite remember, but to the best of my knowledge, it was one of nearly national importance and an extremely delicate nature, possibly involving an adulterer in the monarchy." Mycroft answered casually. John knew by the way he looked down and glanced at his watch that Mycroft was lying and that it really _was_ of a delicate nature. Well, Sherlock was never one for small cases.

There was a small pause, but the quiet was shattered by a loud bang from outside in a nearby street. John glanced at Mycroft before jumping up and walking to the door. Mycroft, however, remained in his plush seat.

"Gunshot, Mycroft." He said. Mycroft merely waved a hand airily.

"I don't think you need to worry about that." He dismissed it as though he'd seen many shootings in London, which to be fair, he might have. "Gunshot is the easiest way to ensure your capture by the police." John shrugged in agreement and sat back down.

He remembered Sherlock saying something along those lines once. He had shot into the air and informed John curtly that the police were 'on their way'.

Mycroft glanced at his watch again and then sighed.

"What time do you propose you leave?" he asked abruptly. "I don't wish to keep you."

"I don't mind. I'd prefer to be back to the hotel before ten, though." John replied, taken aback by the sudden query.

"Ah; maybe you lost track of time." Mycroft said. "It's already twenty past nine in the evening." John's eyebrows lifted in disbelief.

"Really? Well, that was definitely an interesting evening." He chuckled. Mycroft smiled.

"Would you like to return tomorrow?" he asked. John shrugged unknowingly.

"I don't mind. Is there anything else like... these?" he gestured to the photo albums. Mycroft sighed and began hefting the tomes back into a pile.

"Yes, but they might not be completely as interesting. Old case studies and records." He summarised.

"Ah, I see." John replied. "How about I text you in the morning and see what's most appropriate?"

"That would be perfect, John." Mycroft smiled warmly, although it still seemed as though the expression didn't totally suit his face. Poor man... not being used to valid smiles.

"Thank you for the hotel, by the way," John said as he began walking to the door. "I couldn't have paid for it myself."

"Well, it's the least I can do." Replied Mycroft, still smiling. "I did unwittingly help Jim Moriarty." Oh yes. That.

"I'm sure that..." John faltered slightly. "With time, I will be able to forgive that. Now it's too difficult, I'm afraid, although this afternoon and evening was very nice of you to offer."

"I understand." Mycroft's smile faded ever so slightly. "If you don't mind me asking, what would you say to Sherlock if he were here?" he asked. John frowned, caught off guard once more. He guessed that because Mycroft was such a recluse, conversation wasn't his most developed skill.

"Oh..." John huffed. He had already said everything to the grave, and he wasn't about to say any of that to Mycroft, however close to forgiveness and friendship the man was. "I'm not sure. I would tell him I believe in him, though, and that I wish he were here. The usual." Yet there was so much more he wished he could say. If only being dead was an illusion.

"I'm glad to hear it." Mycroft replied. "Have a nice evening."

"Thanks, Mycroft." John said, stepping out of the door and walking slowly down the staircase. The butler, returned to his post, let him out of the door and John hopped into the black car he knew was there for him.

For the entire journey, John gazed outside. The person who had been shooting was obviously long gone, as there were no officers anywhere to be seen and a few people wandering around, going back home. There was a young woman with a push chair, a drunk and a few nearly-as-drunk friends, and a business man with slicked back hair and a briefcase darting along the street quickly, and then no one.

_To: Greg_

_Message: Evening was fine, might be away another whole day or less. See you soon. - JW_

* * *

**A/N –** I get _so_ much sleep on school nights, _especially_ when I write on those nights. Note the heavy, heavy sarcasm. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter and I hope you keep liking this story because if you stopped liking it then I would have done something drastically wrong, which would be a shame. Thanks for reading!

Jess


	9. Unexpected Weakness

Unbalanced

Part Nine

* * *

The car delivered him, naturally, to the door of his hotel, and he slipped out quickly before hurrying, coat collar turned up against the cold and carrying his small case of clothes, inside, where he was greeted by a panoply of luxuries. These included almost everything from the plush navy carpet to the single elegant flower in a smoothly curved ceramic vase.

Now that he was there, John didn't actually know what to do, but he decided to just ask at the desk. A receptionist was waiting patiently for visitors in the standard uniform – navy to match the general colour scheme with a crisp white shirt and a name badge stating that the woman was called 'Alyssa'. Of course, there wasn't a single crease or crumb anywhere on her person and her hair and makeup was immaculate. John almost snorted at how much he must be missing. He saw, yes. Observed, no.

"Excuse me," he said as he approached the shining desk. Alyssa looked up from a hotel laptop and smiled at him encouragingly.

"How can I help you, sir?" she asked in a calming voice. The absolute richness of everything was beginning to seem slightly weird to John... and he'd been to Buckingham Palace.

"I was booked in here by an associate." He told her. "Mr Mycroft Holmes." Alyssa smiled more widely and tapped at the laptop keyboard quickly, scanning through the lists of data.

"Ah; yes." She replied after a brief pause. "Your room is on the third floor and is number 95." John was handed a key card and gestured to the lift across the hallway. "Enjoy your stay!"

"Thank you." He smiled timidly at the imposing splendour around him (as well as the beautiful woman) and made his way to the lift. Inside he selected the second out of six floors and waited as the lift ascended smoothly. The interior had a subtle primrose wallpaper - but not the sickly kind of toned primrose - with a tall mahogany skirting board and a silver rail for the more nervous of guests to hold onto if necessary. Just at eye level on one side was a widescreen playing a slideshow of the hotel. This occupied John's attention until the doors slid open slowly and stepped out into another hallway. This one was long and, to John's surprise, only had a few doors along the entire stretch. The remaining bare wall was dotted strategically with artwork.

He glanced down at the key card to check his number and then began wandering down the corridor to find his own room. It didn't take long, as each room had the number printed smartly on the door. John slid the card through the slot next to the door, which let out a low beep of confirmation, and opened the door.

John's first reaction was to gape. Mycroft hadn't booked him a room, but, as a plaque on the wall told him, an entire celebrity suite. He examined the selective names on the plaque and found himself in a state of complete shock.

The main room, which he had wandered into, was very typically idyllic and stylish, and was uncluttered and organised. Having been living with Greg's mess for so long, this unnerved him and he immediately felt the need to ruffle the bedding and inspect everything in every drawer, although this turned out to be fairly disappointing; there was merely a hairdryer, a tea tray and kettle, a hotel leaflet and several complimentary items, which included, oddly enough, a silken bathrobe in the navy blue he had already become accustomed to that was hanging inside the wardrobe.

In fact, he had been used to that particular shade of blue, and that particular bathrobe, for a long time. John was overcome by a surge of laughing tenderness as he realized that Sherlock must have, at some point, stayed in the same hotel as him. He had probably even been in the same situation as John – booked in by Mycroft and slightly annoyed that he had let himself get to the point he was at. Although for Sherlock, he would have been irritated purely from brotherly dislike, rather than the onslaught of complicated panoply of emotions John was feeling.

He was supposed to _hate_ Mycroft. He had willingly told Moriarty the information he needed, resulting in Sherlock's death, and yet he had helped his little brother, to be blunt, _survive_ for years. That night, as well, he had seemed so nice, and he had been mourning after all, even if it was by resorting to drink. He was remaining professional despite this and even succeeding in trying to be friendly, but... he had still caused Sherlock's death.

Even John was bored of going over these same facts by this point, but he couldn't just stop it. The issue had to be resolved as soon as possible or he would drive himself mad thinking about it incessantly. The problem was that it was impossible and he was stuck trying to make one side of things outweigh the other eternally.

Now, half of his mind was chastising the other half for being so stupid as to go and _see_ the enemy on purpose, while the other was chastising the first half for being so negative and blaming everything on one man. Mycroft was his brother and had proved many times that he was a caring one, so why would he sell Sherlock out like that? The mental debate was debilitating and becoming more insistently frustrating by the day.

John sat down on the bed heavily and leant his head on his hands.

"Stop it," he whispered to himself as the two conflicting sections of his mind battled to the death. "Just... stop it."

He remembered the times with Sherlock to try and distract himself, but ended up simply having these merge into his existing confusion and blind him of free thought. He stripped off his clothes weakly and fell back into the bed, barely caring how the blankets over him were placed.

Slowly, his restraint fell to dust and he allowed himself to cry past the face he usually put on over himself to cap his emotions. He was a military man and he could keep a straight face. Normally nothing could have broken it, but then again, he and a few other people had already worked out that Sherlock was his unexpected weakness.

He didn't let out a sound for the entire time his guard was effectively down and forced himself to grieve in silence. John may have been letting himself go slightly, but he would show as few outward signs of it as possible. Crying meant he was letting people and things get to him, but crying out loud meant he was letting them continue it, and that was unacceptable.

Tomorrow would be a new day, and with it he would don a fresh mask, whether ready or not.

* * *

**A/N – **Haven't posted for a little while, so hello new readers! I'm currently listening to live Eric Clapton tracks and writing this at half past midnight (edit: I'm posting it at 6:30 now :D), so I hope my quality isn't too terrible. Sorry this is a bit shorter than some of the others, but I got to where I did and it seemed like a good place to end. As usual, please review and all that nice stuff. Thanks for reading :)

Jess


	10. Dividing Lines

**A/N – **I am so sorry for that accidental hiatus! Basically my parents stole my Internet for the hundredth time, so I'm now going to make up to you guys with at least two chapters. I have three, but I'm not sure the last is totally edited. Enjoy :)

* * *

Unbalanced

Part Ten

* * *

John woke to the sound of his phone ringing shrilly and groaned groggily as he reached out to accept the call.

"Hello?" he answered tiredly. He had spent most of the night awake, and the rest of it in a feverish nightmare.

"Hello, John." Mycroft's voice replied. "I was wondering if you would be returning today."

"Oh, um, maybe." John replied. All his thinking for the last God-knows-how-long had achieved nothing.

"I hope I didn't disturb you." Mycroft said. "You sound distracted." John glanced at the clock and grimaced.

"It's fine," he sighed. "I had a hard time sleeping... that's all, really."

"I see. As we have the entire day today, I suggest that we have lunch together." Mycroft continued. John almost cocked an eyebrow at the unusual idea. Okay, so he had had lunch with Sherlock hundreds of times, but this was _Mycroft _-'How's the diet' Mycroft! Extremely posh, uptight the majority of the time, and dieting. And possibly Sherlock's betrayer.

"That sounds good." John replied, suppressing a surprised, exhausted giggle. To be fair, it did sound good. "Where?" He asked.

"I thought that we could go to a little restaurant near the Club, so that it wouldn't take long if we wished to return." Mycroft answered briskly. "I'm sure you'll like it."

"That's nice, then." John responded, bemused. "What time?"

"Now it is..." Mycroft paused, apparently checking. "It is currently eleven o'clock. Would you mind taking a car to meet me at twelve?"

"No, that sounds great, just..." John said. He was distracted by something in the room, but he couldn't tell what it was.

"Doctor?" Mycroft disrupted the gap in the middle of his sentence. "Is there a problem?" John blinked and gathered his thoughts, ignoring the hairs on the back of his neck, which were standing on end.

"What? Oh, no, I wasn't concentrating. Twelve this afternoon, okay." John replied quickly, closing his eyes slowly.

"Then I will see you in a few hours." John mumbled a goodbye and hung up before reopening his eyes. Something was different.

_Oh, it's just the curtain. _John noticed it at last; the material was flapping in his peripheral vision.

_I didn't leave the window open, did I? _Remembering this, he walked over to it, letting his fingers graze the sill.

_Maybe it was already open and someone just forgot to close it. _John thought of this before he began to wonder any further, and closed the window firmly. It wasn't that cold, but that was probably down to the warm bed he had slept in all night.

Eleven o'clock, Mycroft had said. That left him one hour until the car arrived, and he wanted a few minutes spare before he left the hotel to compose himself. Once he got in the car, he could just slide down in his seat and relax even more, but he had no idea where he was really going.

Knowing this, John grimaced and wandered into the shower, where he was assaulted by an astoundingly simple system, unlike many other hotels he had stayed at where he had been forced to spend minutes just working out which way was hot and which was cold. The water was warm and the towels were soft. Obviously, he had been going to the wrong hotels.

Despite the lavishness surrounding him, John felt out of place. He was a retired, depressed and reclusive army doctor. He was not, and would never be, _enough_ to live like this. For crying out loud, he didn't even have a girlfriend anymore! He had met Sherlock and any hint of a relationship had been consumed by him and the distractions he caused. Murders and danger were huge turn offs for women, and therefore, they were both as single as possible. Not that Sherlock had ever really _wanted_ someone else.

John couldn't work out what was worse – the fact that in all his knowing Sherlock and Mycroft, John had never heard anything about a girlfriend or boyfriend, or imagining a world where Sherlock _did_ want or have someone. Both were equally strange to him.

Using the expensive-looking hotel shampoo, John washed his hair and then tried out all the fancy shower gels and soaps he could find, before slumping onto an in-built seat to the side of the shower and letting the water plummet onto his body. He let out a sigh as he slowly began to relax.

Remembering he did, in fact, have a time limit to keep within, John stood leisurely and turned off the shower before replacing all the shower gels and hair products where they had been before. That was one of his military habits – automatically trying to be as neat as possible. It came in handy often as a doctor, so he hadn't let it slide.

He dried himself with one of the towels and slipped into the dark, silk robe that he had recognised as the twin of Sherlock's before padding back into the main room once more. The clothes he had brought would last today, and that was it, and looking back he saw that his choices hadn't been the best, but were still acceptable. Then again, he hardly left the house now, so there was no one to impress.

Looking back at the clock, he saw that he had half an hour left, so he dressed slowly and remade the bed, wondering at the fact that Marilyn Monroe had slept in it, or at least its predecessor, before realising he had never really seen anything with Marilyn Monroe in it and therefore had no reason to be so astonished. Lestrade had watched one, he knew that – something about a prince falling in love with Monroe, who played a showgirl, as he had been told – and had offered to watch it with him, but John had turned it down and gone to sleep. That had been what felt like a long time ago but was probably only a week or so in the past.

The hotel had an internet connection, and John's phone picked it up almost immediately, and the password was displayed clearly beside a lamp on the desk in the room. He keyed it in quickly and then checked his emails. John had long since stopped his blog from sending him emails about messages, followers and updates to the site. The last time he had gone to the site had been to post a video from the news channel about Sherlock's 'fraudulent' behaviour and deny it flatly, but even that had been hard. He had seen his old posts and ramblings and been struck dumb by how oblivious he had been to everything. How could he not have realised Sherlock would be in danger the minute he saw that text from Moriarty on Sherlock's phone?

He blamed it on himself every day, although he knew that it would have been a miracle if he _had _seen it coming. That would have made him almost as clever as Sherlock, and that would never happen. His senses were dull and his mind was nowhere near as sharp as his friend's. Never had he felt below the man, though, in any way. They both had their faults, and John liked how he balanced out Sherlock's, comforting witnesses after Sherlock was so brutal with them and being a sense of normality to those who met him. He had even managed to ground the guy and make him do what was necessary, like eat, sleep, drink and just plain out _stop_ sometimes.

They had matched. John had helped Sherlock, while Sherlock had (if inadvertently ) helped him. Sherlock had given him a purpose and a friend. He had given him a reason, if he was honest, not to shoot himself in the head with the British Army Browning L9A1 that he knew, even now, was in his desktop draw. That was what he had been working towards when he met Sherlock, because nothing happened to him to make him want to stay and there was no way he could keep living on an army pension without having a flatmate. Thank the Lord for Mike Anderson's bustling kindness.

It hadn't been like John was even depressed. It was more like he was _bored_, and slightly resigned. It scared him that he had nearly killed himself because he was bored. How often had Sherlock been bored? With a mind as vast as his, boredom must have lead straight to suicide after every other idea was deemed impossible and/or gone. His psychiatrist had told him that not everyone's mind worked in the same way and that some people got bored and were merely restless then, but John found it hard to believe. That was one thing he had been upset about after Sherlock's death. In all the time they had lived together, John hadn't managed to 'cure' Sherlock's boredom, which he was sure could have just as easily been depression. He was obviously spontaneous and reckless enough to kill himself, having taken drugs in the past.

When Sherlock had died, it had been like the penultimate nail in John's own coffin, although not the last. The knowledge that he had been unable to stop his own best friend from dying was crushing. The last nail was rolling around on the floor under a bench somewhere now. Despite the sadness, John looked back on it with a bitter, distressing irony. Sherlock had jumped from a _hospital _roof_. _He had died within mere _feet _ of its doors. There was an incredibly thin line in between life and death, and John found himself, once more, walking it.

He hardly believed in Heaven anymore, but the idea that if he died, he _could_ join Sherlock somewhere else was agreeable. The idea that he could stay the same was unbearable.

John and Sherlock. They had fit each other perfectly as friends and not even realised how necessary they were for each other while they had the chance. It was like they were two weights on a scale. Now that Sherlock was gone, John could feel himself being pulled further and further away from where he wanted and was supposed to be. The scale was unbalanced, just like him. Even Ella, the psychiatrist, had described him as 'unbalanced'. She was more right than she imagined. John hadn't been able to stop Sherlock, and so he wouldn't stop himself.

* * *

**A/N – **I made myself emotional now. This is not fun. Sorry. I haven't posted for a while now and felt guilty, so obviously, I stayed up until 2AM because that's when I'm most emotional and creative and... I'm about to become really sloppy, and that's a side of me you do _not_ want to see. Okay, I'll stop moaning incoherently now. I hope you're still enjoying this even as the angst sets in! Please, please review, and thank you for reading.

Jess

P.S. This is just a heads-up, but at some point I'm going to have to change the summary because the story idea has changed slightly/a lot, in case anyone's bothered. I'm completely stuck! One more thing, now I come to think of it – I was going to make this a slash fic, but I think it would be better to make it implied so I don't banish anyone who doesn't like slash but does like my story so far. I hope that's okay with everyone :)


	11. Composition

**A/N – **As promised, the second chapter. Hopefully another one will follow, but I don't know yet :)

* * *

Unbalanced

Part Eleven

* * *

John sat around for slightly too long. At five past twelve, the phone beside his bed rang and a receptionist told him that a car was there for him.

He rushed down the stairs, deciding it would wake him up and save the tediousness of the lift, and slid into the backseat of the car that had pulled up. To his surprise, Mycroft was already there with his umbrella at his feet. So much for 'composing himself'.

"Sorry I'm late," he puffed, out of breath. He had forgotten that there were quite so many stairs to climb, having taken the lift when he arrived. "Lost track of time."

"It's perfectly alright." Replied Mycroft. "I gave you only an hour's warning, after all." John nodded his gratitude quickly and strapped on his seat belt.

"Had you got any particular plan for today?" John asked. "I'm not very organised, as you've probably noticed." Mycroft smiled slyly and nodded.

"I thought that we might visit Sherlock's grave before lunch, if that's alright with you." He said, still smiling slightly. John stiffened. His visits to the grave had slowly waned until he had almost forgotten them after the incident with the slip of paper. He had thought about it and come to the conclusion that it was either an unhappy coincidence or the result of someone who disliked Sherlock coming across the headstone.

"Oh, that's..." John considered the pros and cons briefly. No doubt Mycroft was protected wherever he went; therefore nobody could hurt John while he was with Mycroft. Then again, a sniper wouldn't have to try too hard to hide in all the bushes around the graveyard. "That's fine." He accepted because the worst that could happen to him was that he could be killed, and hadn't he just been considering his own, intentional death anyway?

"Then we shall go there." Mycroft concluded, before pressing a button and telling the anonymous driver the same.

As the two men drove, they both thought. John thought about what his limits were and when exactly he would consider it time for himself to die, and Mycroft thought about Sherlock's relationship with John. They had always been such a pair and never had they seemed to clash apart from when Sherlock was in one of his moods. _Everyone_ clashed with him then. How were you supposed to act when the man completely denied his feelings and seemed to mean it? It wasn't a situation where you could say 'I'll come back later and you'd better be sorry then' because he wouldn't. Arguments with Sherlock devoured mere moments and then had to be left completely behind or taken totally personally.

"John," he said as they neared the yard. "I believe you still have Sherlock's phone." The phone had always had his concerned interest, purely because nobody seemed to be able to get into it. Obviously, it was supposed to mean something to John.

"Yeah," John replied in a low voice, clearing his throat. "I can't open it." Mycroft sighed.

"Nobody seems to be able to work it out in the world," he said sadly. Knowing Sherlock, there was something important on it. Never before had he put a password on his phone.

"I'm sorry." John said darkly.

"It's not your fault." Mycroft assured him. "If cryptographers and code breakers from around the world can't, then I doubt anyone could except you, seeing as it was intended for you. There seems to be no logic in it at all, which, of course, is _exactly_ like Sherlock's idea of a password."

"I guessed it was for me, but I can't see how. He always broke mine, and he broke into so many people's computers and databases while he was here." John said, his tone lightening enough for him to laugh gently. "He always complained that no one had a decent password, so it makes sense that he would be the one to have the perfect, unbreakable one."

"That's very true." Mycroft responded. "I rather wish he _didn't_, though. It was... not part of the plan at all." _Then again, _he added silently. _None of this was pre-empted. _

John had, of course, tried everything. Even the word 'fake' had made it onto the list of discarded ideas, along with 1895, 221B and 'sher', in all their variations and forms, along with many others. They came to him spontaneously and he never guessed correctly, so John assumed he would just have to give the phone back to Mycroft. He didn't, though. John Hamish Watson had always been too sentimental for his own good, as Sherlock had constantly reminded him.

There was a beep and Mycroft pressed the same button as before to communicate with the driver.

"Sorry sir," came a crackling voice. "Would you like to be dropped off at the gate or a street away?"

"By the gate, if you would." Mycroft replied, glancing at John, who was gazing outside with hooded lids again.

"Yes, sir." Replied the driver. "You will be there in two minutes." Mycroft released the button and resumed looking at John, who appeared to have forgotten Mycroft was there. He looked worryingly absorbed in his thoughts, considering that he had been giving his full attention mere seconds ago. It was obvious that he hadn't slept, also, and Mycroft noted the dark bags beneath his eyes from what must have been accumulated nights of little sleep.

Evidently, there was something on his mind. This was what Mycroft had been worried about. There had been several obvious ways for Sherlock's apparent death to affect John, and most of them were harshly miserable. They had written a list together, although no one except Sherlock had really _needed_ one. He was the only person sociopathic enough to not know what death did to a person already damaged, like John. Post traumatic stress disorder, a psychosomatic limp and a tremor in his left hand when put under pressure. Mycroft checked John's hand, and sure enough, it was shaking despite his clenched fist.

The list, needless to say, had not been pleasant for anybody, including Sherlock, to read.

'_Sadness; return of some (or all) previous traumatic mental problems; depression; suicide/self harm...' _

The list had gone on, into further medical detail, but the main thing was that whatever happened to John after Sherlock's death, it wouldn't be good.

"_Why would he be depressed or kill himself?" _Sherlock had asked. _"I was his flatmate."_

"_Please, Sherlock,"_ Mycroft had replied. _Try to understand. You were __**not**__ just his flatmate. You were his best friend, just as he was yours. Although he was on good terms with everyone, you were his only close friend._"

Sherlock had remained silent from then on as Mycroft attempted to explain, eventually ending the conversation _("Yes! I'll try and understand, then. Happy? Thank you, now onto more pressing issues...")._

The planning had been done hurriedly and partly over the phone and computer. Everything had gone too fast, and there was only time to plan for the inevitable worst, despite Sherlock's intelligence and Mycroft's resources.

John was only pulled from his trancelike thoughts when the car pulled smoothly up to the curb and the driver opened the door for him and Mycroft to exit. The dark, cushioned interior seemed even darker than before with the cold, cloud-veiled sun shining outside.

"Well," said Mycroft as John stumbled inelegantly out to stand beside him. "The grave is almost in sight already. Shall we?" John nodded and they made their way to the headstone together for the first time, John wincing slightly as his right leg throbbed slightly, Mycroft denting the soft grass with the point of his umbrella. John had managed to control his unpredictable leg lately, but it wasn't completely gone. It was inconvenient, seeing as he hadn't brought his cane, but he could always ask to borrow Mycroft's umbrella.

Today, there were others in the graveyard. As John expected, there was a selection of elderly men and women clutching bouquets or walking sticks, as well as a young widow dressed in all black with a netted veil and a man stooped over a new-looking grave wearing leather gloves and holding a single white carnation.

As usual, there was no one anywhere near Sherlock's grave, for not only had Mycroft planned it to be in an out of the way place, but in a sheltered, unvisited area, with many of the older graves and some that were merely to honour the memory of dead soldiers, whether their bodies were there or not. No one really visited this area before or after Sherlock's death. Nothing had changed.

"Do you come to the grave often?" asked John.

"Unfortunately not." Said Mycroft. "I tend to find myself preoccupied or unwilling to do so at the best of times. He was my brother, however irritatingly big-headed." John chuckled.

"He was my _flatmate_, however irritatingly big-headed, and even if he did play the violin at three in the morning sometimes," he replied, sending a look at Mycroft. "I wouldn't have had it any other way." Mycroft smiled sorrowfully and they wandered on. The grave was beginning to wear very slightly; the corners seemed minutely rougher than before. The text on it still shone out just as brightly, if not more so.

"When did you last speak?" John asked Mycroft. He hoped the question wasn't too personal, but wanted to know too much to be truly worried about Mycroft's feelings. He had been the last to speak to him in the world, and that must affect Mycroft, even if diminutively. Mycroft, in response, blew out a long breath, and shook his head slowly as he thought back.

"Some time before, I would imagine. It was probably via text or phone call – you know how I repulsed him." He replied.

"I'm sorry." John responded dully. It was worse than he had even imagined. This was his _fault_.

Together, the two men stood and waited for something that might never even happen.

* * *

**A/N – **Hello once more and thank you for reading, as usual. This chapter _was_ slightly from Mycroft's point of view (pov), but hopefully you caught on and didn't get confused. If you did, then I apologise, but that's my writing style, so... hmm.

Anyway, I got sidetracked there. Thank you again!

Jess


	12. Dining In Danger

**A/N - **Seeing as I haven't uploaded for ages, here's two chapters :) Sorry!

* * *

Unbalanced

Part Twelve

* * *

Mycroft and John remained at the grave for another few minutes before silently, mutually, deciding nothing was going to come from it, and then they wandered back to their waiting car together. On the way past the more popular graves, John tripped over a clump of mud that someone had kicked up and fell, only to be helped up quickly by the man who had been sitting, bowed head, next to the graves. Mycroft shot him a dirty look, but John thanked the man as he turned back.

"What's wrong?" he asked Mycroft, who then shook his head.

"I don't associate with people outside of my work, as you must know," Mycroft replied after a second, steering John in the right direction again. "I was worried for our safety momentarily." John grew cold. Could that have been the very person who would kill him? After all his cautious staying inside, he had let his guard down and luckily not paid for it.

"Oh," John said simply, unable to think of a better response. He glanced back briefly and saw the man was sitting where he had been, back to them, with his head ducked again.

"Do you want to go straight to lunch, or would you prefer to take a drive first?" Mycroft asked.

"Ah..." John thought. He had eaten so little in the last few weeks and months that he barely needed to eat now. He hardly got hungry. "A drive would be good, actually."

They stepped back into the car, John's leg aching even more than before as he did so, and the driver began on a scenic route through the city. Not that John really noticed that. He didn't tend to notice 'beauty' anymore. He had never been a huge one for going to pretty places that were of great national value. He accepted that the few he had seen _were_ beautiful but couldn't really see why it was so important. The world wouldn't be exactly the same without them, yes, but they weren't useful, and being a doctor made him want to use what he could. John was resourceful.

Dartmoor had been beautiful, but he had hardly ever been less than terrified on the moors, so he hadn't exactly taken time to appreciate the fruits of the earth. He did, however, want to go back there one day. It would be nice to visit some of his and Sherlock's old crime scenes. He had no idea what might have changed. Was Dave, the gambling tour guide, still there? Was Katie's mum still there?

Little things like these caught his attention occasionally. The only problem was that he couldn't gather the energy or care to find out any of the answers.

"What have you been doing lately?" Mycroft asked. The car continued to thrum softly.

"Not that much," John replied. "I don't really like to go outside in case someone shoots at me or something along those lines." Mycroft nodded.

"Then you're still being careful?" he queried. John nodded fervently, grateful that Mycroft hadn't used the word 'paranoid'.

"Yes, exactly!" he exclaimed. "Nobody seems to understand that I'm being cautious anymore."

"Really?" Mycroft's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I mean," John began, starting to laugh and shaking his head. "Ella – that's my counsellor – calls it 'paranoia'!" He laughed louder, thinking of how ridiculous some of the things she said were. Mycroft, however, didn't laugh.

"Would you go outside if you knew you were safe?" he enquired, toying with the handle of his umbrella.

"No, probably not," John acknowledged. "But there's not really anything out there, is there? Apart from buses and buildings and people... nothing." His slightly hysterical laughter died down and John's smile faded. "I'm agoraphobic now, you know." Mycroft nodded.

"Well..." he began falteringly. This caught John's attention. Mycroft Holmes was not one to falter. "I do think you should go out more often, even if it was just to exercise."

"I don't know." John replied, now irritated. Everyone said this, as well as that he was paranoid. "I'm not unhealthy lately." Mycroft acknowledged this with a nod.

"I wasn't trying to imply it; I was warning you that you may _become_ unhealthy because of your caution." He amended.

"I know, but I'd rather be unhealthy than dead at the moment." John countered, casting his eye out of the window again.

"That is a fair point. I may have to lend you a treadmill." Mycroft replied, lapsing into silence. John almost smirked. Mycroft had more than one? He doubted it. No one was that committed to a diet, so Mycroft must be offering to buy him a treadmill, which was still quite ridiculous.

They arrived at the restaurant around ten minutes later, and to John's surprise he found that he had been there once before. It had only been briefly, and only to interrogate the boss about a murder charge, but the distinctively upper class style was unforgettable, just as was the hotel.

"Sherlock and I went here for a while once," he commented as he and Mycroft walked through the silent glass doors and onto the smart, wooden floor. "It was just to see the boss."

"Ah, yes;" Mycroft replied. "He had been related to the Jackson murder case, had he not?"

"Yes, that was it." John answered. He looked around. "Lovely place." He said.

"It's a shame my brother rarely stopped long enough to eat."Mycroft responded drily, and John chuckled.

"The first time I met him, I was still awake at... three in the morning, or something stupid." John replied. "The first day I met him! I had already run around half of London to send a text and _then_ I ended up sh-" John had been about to tell Mycroft of how he had shot the man about to potentially murder Sherlock with a single bullet, but suddenly remembered that it had been illegal and, technically, murder on _his _part. Mycroft, being the government, probably wouldn't like it too much, but as it was, his only reaction was to cock a single eyebrow and continue. John got a nasty feeling that he knew what he had been about to say.

"Some people adapt to variable sleeping patterns easily," Mycroft said, as though nothing had even happened. "And unfortunately for anyone caught up with him, Sherlock was one of them."

"I didn't particularly mind, although I fell asleep at work once, which was utterly embarrassing." John reminisced. "I'd only just started working there!" Mycroft laughed as their waiter led them to a table and they sat down to look at the menus. John was worried at the costs at the side of each dish. The chef's name sounded French.

"I'll pay, if you like," he said suddenly. "You're already paying for my hotel and, apparently, a treadmill."

"That won't be necessary," replied Mycroft smiling reservedly. "I'm sure this won't make too huge a dent in the economy." John assessed his seriousness wordlessly for a moment, before shutting his mouth and concentrating on the menu.

The entire front of the restaurant was glass, but the tables were placed a discreet distance away so that nobody looking in would invade the diners' privacy. Mycroft had picked a table on the second floor up, which was near the glass front, allowing John to look down at the people passing below them. Their black car was gone now, but that was only to be expected. John gazed as a woman with fluorescent pink streaks in her hair passed, looking out of place among all of the neat, suited workers on their lunch breaks.

The buildings across the street were mainly professional-looking law firms and small boutiques, with a few prudent apartments among them. Most people had their windows open and their curtains pulled aside now, allowing John glimpses of their homes. It wasn't that interesting, really. A few sofas, one person watching something on the TV, and someone's office were visible.

One apartment had its dark curtains closed and John supposed that there was nobody there at first until he noticed that one of the windows was open. Nobody left their window open when they were out or on holiday, especially not in such a rich area of London, so either the occupant was still inside but suffering from some kind of migraine or they had forgotten to shut it, in which case, it was fairly likely that they would come home to find a few choice possessions missing.

As John watched, the curtain was pulled aside momentarily, in time for a man to lean out and close the window, kit bag slung over his shoulder, and check a phone before the curtain fell back into place.

A few minutes later, as John began to eat the pasta he had ordered, the man wandered down the street casually and then ducking into a secluded alley to check his phone again.

_Message received_

_From: (unknown)_

_Message: Let him live. He's not exactly doing any harm, poor thing._

He smiled before flicking to the next text.

_Message received_

_From: (unknown)_

_Message: Later._

Shrugging his bag more firmly onto his shoulder, the man came out of the other end of the alley and went on his way.

* * *

**A/N – **Woo, drama! A few things are starting to shift around a bit now, and as you can tell, John's not done with danger yet. That was always obvious, though. Anyway, there's some _stuff_ now, which is exciting, isn't it? I like stuff, especially exciting stuff. Does anyone want to guess anything? There are some things to guess! I sound a bit like the eleventh Doctor now, which probably means it's time to shut up. Please review or I'll set my cat on you, which is, admittedly, a stupid threat. Worth a try, though.

Jess


	13. The Worldwide Web

**A/N - **As promised, the second chapter :)

* * *

Unbalanced

Part Thirteen

* * *

Mycroft and John spent the rest of the day driving around the city, sitting, thinking, and occasionally remembering some anecdote they wanted to tell the other. John was surprised to learn that Mycroft and Sherlock had run away from their country home once.

"Our mother was quite suffocating at time," said Mycroft. "And when he was fourteen, I decided it was reasonable to leave."

"Reasonable..." John laughed. He could imagine Sherlock running away, but not _Mycroft._

"Well, how mature do you think he was then?" Mycroft asked. "He was almost the same as he was a few months ago, but slightly more reckless."

"I didn't think he could be much more reckless!" exclaimed John. Mycroft shook his head.

"Oh, no - you didn't see him at the age of twelve, so you don't understand the full extent of this. He went clambering into a bull field to irritate it on purpose once. Another time, he started 'testing' all the electric fences around our house and we found him passed out at the edge of the grounds." Mycroft said.

"Really‽ He was... I'm supposing that Sherlock was a nightmare for your parents, then." John said.

"Of course, especially because of the dead animals and live dissections he carried out on the kitchen counter. Once he brought home a dead badger which had obviously been in a ditch somewhere for... some time." John shivered at the thought. He had seen dead bodies, obviously, and they had smelt horrendous. He could hardly imagine what a badger of that description would smell like. Water would not have helped the issue either.

"I wouldn't have minded that, as long as it was nowhere near the kitchen, I didn't find it in the fridge, and he didn't spread the smell everywhere." John sighed. "But then again, you have to put up with what Sherlock wants or he drives you mad."

"Eventually, father turned a conservatory into a laboratory for him." Mycroft remarked.

"You must have had a few spare rooms," John smiled.

"You could say that," replied Mycroft. "Our parents passed away several years ago, but the house is still cared for and lived in by a few people, merely to prevent it from falling into misuse."

"Oh," said John. "I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"I and Sherlock both cared for mother," sighed Mycroft. "At least, after we were old enough to live on our own. She was like any other mother, but unfortunately for her, we were more than able to leave without permission."

"So she raised you to be slightly _too_ independent," John clarified. Mycroft nodded in agreement as they passed the Houses of Parliament by the Thames.

"Ah," he said, glancing out of the window. "We appear to have made our way to the social heart of the city."

"I haven't been here for quite a while, considering that it's one of the largest tourist attractions in Britain," laughed John. "But I never was one for getting out."

"Hmm," replied Mycroft disapprovingly as he picked out a souvenir stand from the throngs of people and pulled a phone from his pocket.

"Where shall we go now?" John asked after a pause where Mycroft tapped out a text quickly.

"I decided the last place we visited, so you can choose for us both this time," said Mycroft airily. "Anthea is prepared to pick up your friend, Greg, if necessary." John shook his head fervently.

"He can come if he's not busy and he wants to," he explained. "Maybe we could go to..." John trailed off as he realised he had no idea of where to take Mycroft. Where did upper-class business men _like_ to go? Where did _John_ like to go‽

Mycroft, seeing that John was flailing, suggested the perfect place himself.

"Perhaps, John, we could visit your current home."

"Yes!" John cried in relief. "That's great - we can go there now." Mycroft sent the instruction to the driver and ten minutes later, they had arrived back at Greg and John's shared home.

"So..." John began awkwardly as he unlocked the door. "This is it, really." Mycroft had only ever seen Sherlock's choice of home before and never John's, so this was uncomfortable. John had hardly even looked over the house before moving in himself. He hadn't truly wanted to; his depression had, at the time, been his main priority. It still was, but for these few days, Mycroft Holmes (of all people) had managed to distract him.

"This is a charming house," [1] remarked Mycroft as the two men entered the hallway. John looked around at the simple décor and the bookcase that was in the process of being moved from one room to another and wondered what Mycroft was seeing.

"Yes, well..." John gestured around him. "Being a DI has its benefits, I suppose."

"Do you like it here?" Mycroft asked as he began to wander slowly through the hall to peek into the other rooms leading from it.

"Oh, yes," said John. "It's very kind of Greg to let me stay, me being me."

"Yes, but... are you _happy?_" Mycroft repeated. John paused.

"With the house?" he specified. "I am very happy with this." Mycroft turned back to him and smiled sadly.

"You're suffering still, John," he said, producing a small, all-too-familiar notebook from his jacket pocket. John groaned. Of course Mycroft would still be checking his counsellor's notes.

"Of course I'm suffering like _that,_" John admitted. "It's much easier when I'm with other people, though, like now - even with you, who I'm supposed to be extremely conflicted about!" His joked was intended to lighten the mood or change the subject, but instead, Mycroft seemed to grow more upset. He scratched one sideburn slowly before replying.

"If I _did_ betray Sherlock, John, then..." he sighed as he thought, lowering his hand. "I cannot take what I did back. I can merely apologise, which I know already is unacceptable." John's heart sank. This was not what he had meant to cause. This was almost worse than a discussion of his feelings.

"Mycroft, stop," John protested feebly.

"If I _didn't_, however," Mycroft continued with a tiny smile. "I can still merely apologise for what has happened and what is happening."

This second statement didn't make much sense – 'what has happened and what is happening'? However, before John could question it, he was called upstairs by a sudden shout. Mycroft waited behind and grabbed his phone, retreating to the doorway quickly, but John ran up, recognising Greg's voice.

"Greg?" he yelled as he rushed around the top floor, searching. "Greg, are you okay?" He stumbled into Lestrade's office to find him sitting at his desk on the phone with an expression of near-devastation on his face.

"You're back!" Greg exclaimed. "One moment." He muttered into the phone.

"What happened?" John asked curiously, seeing now that Greg wasn't in pain, injured or in any other way harmed.

"I got some news from the Yard," Greg explained gravely. "There's been a break in, and whoever did it broke into your hotel room." John stared.

"Have they found anyone?" he queried.

"Not yet," Greg answered. "The team is on its way, though. It was a posh hotel, so we're thinking it was just a random break in." John started as theories began to flood him. What if it had been Moriarty? What if someone was still after him? His 'paranoia' wasn't useless, then!

"Oh," he said outwardly. "By the way, Mycroft's downstairs. I'll tell him to come up." He made his way back down the stairs.

"John," said Mycroft as soon as he was in view. "There's been a... Oh, but Gregory must already have told you."

"Yeah," John nodded. "Did they take anything?" he asked.

"No, but they appear to have ruffled your possessions a fair bit," Mycroft said, holding up his phone to display a picture of the now upturned bedroom. John sighed in relief, although still unsure of whether it was a random break in or not. It wasn't as though he had anything of importance that they might have stolen, but it was nice to know he still owned everything that he had that morning.

"John," Greg joined them. "Oh, you've seen the picture now. Afternoon, Mr Holmes."

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted Lestrade. John was still glancing at the photo. There was something different, but he couldn't quite see what it was.

"Mycroft, could I just-?" John asked, taking the phone and examining it closely. "Oh..." Immediately, Greg and Mycroft were fixated by him.

"John?" probed Mycroft. Lestrade frowned.

"What's missing?" he asked. John shook his head and pointed at a part of the photo.

"They didn't take anything," he told them. "They added something."

Sherlock had explained (briefly but clearly) the details of Moriarty's visit to the flat after his name had been cleared, and John was fully aware of the predominance of the 'IOU' message that had cropped up in a few places. This particular message was particularly bold amongst the subtle colouring of the expensive hotel, like a bright boat in the sea, or... or blood on a pavement.

"But, mate," Lestrade said pitifully. "That's just..." he trailed off and smiled slightly.

"John, that is simply an _apple_." Mycroft stressed.

"Moriarty _did_ always have a penchant for fairytales," John sighed, beginning to realise that the web was being reconstructed.

* * *

**A/N – **Oh, look, a chapter! Sorry for all the delays recently. My parents keep deciding I'm an unruly brat and taking away my Internet connection. Trust me, I find it just as annoying as you do, if not more so. I _might_ not update this story as often now, because I've started another one ('Returns') which is sort of like an alternate version of John, post-Reichenbach, but it depends on how enthusiastic I am in the next few weeks or so. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review :)

Jess

[1] – If you happen to recognise this line, I applaud you hugely.


	14. Kick Start

Unbalanced

Part Fourteen

* * *

"Okay, well..." Lestrade sighed, still looking at John as if he were going mad. "We can remove it then."

"Yeah," John ignored the tone in Lestrade's voice and the barely-restrained expression on his face. "You... do that." He turned to Mycroft for support, but even his face was clouded with disbelief.

"John, are you alright?" he asked. John exhaled sharply before nodding in resignation.

"Yeah, fine, fine..." he muttered. "You two have met before, haven't you?" he asked. Lestrade and Mycroft eyed each other warily.

"Yeah, briefly." Lestrade replied. Mycroft picked at his jacket's hem momentarily.

"We have communicated regarding my brother." He clarified. John nodded.

"Right, well... I'm going to go and... sort this all out." He paused. "Am I allowed to get my things or is it cordoned?" Greg checked the photo and grimaced.

"You'll have to repack everything if you want to leave the room _now_, but yeah, I don't see why not. I'd go myself, but-" He replied wearily. John huffed out a breath.

"It's fine. Well, thanks. Mycroft, I'm sorry about this, but..." he trailed off. Mycroft smiled, genteel and judging as ever.

"I understand, John." He replied. "Today was very enjoyable, and hopefully I may see you again soon." John smiled his gratitude and nodded at Lestrade before making his way back downstairs.

He didn't have Sherlock's luck with catching taxis; nobody really did. After all, Sherlock was just over six feet tall, lean, and imposing, whereas he was only five foot seven-ish, square, and friendly. It took him a few minutes to catch one, and then he limped into it cautiously. His limp was always more pronounced when he was stressed, but that was only to be expected.

He gave the name of the hotel and tried to relax in the back seat but couldn't shake off the tension in his body. The space next to him looked empty.

As he approached the hotel, it was with far more apprehension than before. They had known he was there and had managed to break in – apparently even without being noticed. They must have been disguised as a bellboy or something – a cleaner, perhaps. John didn't doubt that Moriarty could have set up such complicated plans before he died. The ones he had constructed during his lifetime were intricate enough that John wondered whether he had used some kind of computer program to think up the timings.

The receptionist asked to see his key before letting him go upstairs. A few police were milling around, surreptitiously eyeing him. He could guess what they were thinking: 'So that's the idiot Sherlock Holmes managed to fool. Huh – he looks pretty messed up. What an idiot.' He flashed a quick, undeserving smile at them before stepping into the lift; he would never manage the stairs in this state.

The music in the lift continued to be as relentlessly cheery as ever. John stood in awkward, solitary silence until the cool announcement (_Floor three._) when the doors opened.

He was greeted by an inspector he didn't know and told what he already knew. The damage looked much more minimal in person – nothing had even been torn – than within the enclosed frame of a photograph, but the damned apple stood out even more. As he approached, he saw it wasn't even real, but was plastic. It was a good fake, but there was a seam running down one side. Mass produced, then, and it would be totally untraceable. Of course.

There were only three other assistants in the room, and John guessed they were only to keep each other company until he arrived.

"The, um, apple," John began to explain. "Whoever broke in planted it here. It was a sort of symbol of Moriarty's." The inspector looked at him dubiously. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but it might be something to bear in mind."

"Well, I'll write it up in the file and check it for fingerprints." He replied, gesturing for someone else to put it in an evidence bag. John almost liked him. They were roughly the same age, although this man had grey hair and the sallow face of a chain smoker. His eyes flickered to a small packet in the inspector's pocket and he noted the cough sweets. If he regretted smoking now, he would a lot more later on in life. Even the few times when Sherlock (or anyone) had ever smoked in front of him had made John wince, diseases and horrifying images of tar-filled lungs flickering through his mind.

"Thanks." John said, before moving away to start picking up the clothes strewn over the room.

It didn't take long to make a pile on the bed, and then he only had to fold them and put them in his suitcase. There was literally nothing wrong with any of them, and as far as he could tell, nothing missing. It was definitely one of Moriarty's crimes.

To start with, no burglar would ever have broken into somewhere this posh anyway, let alone successfully. If they even had managed to, they would have taken something unless they were interrupted and panicked. Why would a burglar have left a cheap plastic apple lying in his hotel room anyway? Why would he have one? Why would _anyone _have a cheap plastic apple‽

This was a crime designed just to warn him, or scare him. John dragged the case, with difficulty, into the lift, tensing his leg as much as possible to try and lessen the limping. This time, he was lucky and a new guest was stepping out of a taxi, so he could simply step into it afterwards and give the address.

As he looked out of the window while they paused at a traffic light, John accidentally caught the eye of a passing stranger going to the gym, judging by their bag and tracksuit. The man looked at him oddly; a moment of recognition flashed across his face and he started to wave. John smiled back meekly and raised his hand automatically.

"_I love your blog!" _mouthed the man.

"_Thanks," _John mouthed back, his smile now more genuine. So people still at least _liked _his writing. It was comforting (to his ego) to know that he hadn't only gained so much attention because of Sherlock's exploits.

As soon as he thought of it, he chastised himself. Sherlock's exploits were worth learning about, however bad the writing. His fortune had been pure luck. Still, it had kick started some new career options. A publishing company had offered to publish a book of his, but... What the hell would he write about? Sherlock's little stories were 'romanticised crime studies', as Sherlock had once put it, and he had never had the motivation to write an original idea. Unless he somehow turned Sherlock into a dashing superhero, which would be utterly ridiculous and disrespectful , he had no chance.

Reading a free online blog was much different from going out and purposely buying a full length _book. _

When he got back to Greg's house, it was deserted, but there was a note on the hall table.

_John,_

_I and Mycroft are going to sort this apple business out ourselves, so I'll be gone for an hour or two. You deserve a night off cooking duty, so I've left a few take away numbers by the phone. See you later._

_Greg_

_P.S. Mycroft says you're welcome at the Diogenes Club anytime, as long as you call/text beforehand._

For once, John did exactly what Greg wanted him to and relaxed. It was easy to let his mind drift today, although not always to happy subjects, he realised. Every time he remembered a funny moment or good time, it lead to thinking of what had happened to Sherlock. To distract himself, John put on the telly and settled in for yet another drearily dramatic episode of Big Brother, or whatever the latest reality show was.

He was practically asleep when the pizza he had ordered arrived, but he managed to wander to the door and ate it straight from the box, sitting on the sofa.

The next thing he knew, Greg was shaking him gently awake and pulling the pizza box out of his limp hands. Blearily, he was guided to his bedroom.

The good news: he had made it through an entire day and not felt as horrendous as usual. The bad news: it would never last.

* * *

**A/N – **Let me just say this – aaaaaaaaarghhhhhhhhh. ARGH. I am _so _sorry for not updating anything recently. I lost my motivation totally when I went to see my granddad, then I just didn't write for ages, then I was away on a choir tour for five days, then I went to France for over a week. Basically, it's taken all my willpower just to write this. Hopefully I'll get back into it soon. Don't kill me! Please review and danke shöne for reading! Jess


	15. Pointless Day

Unbalanced

Part Fifteen

* * *

John woke up in the morning confused. He was in his bed, but... only just. His entire torso was on the floor and only his feet were resting on the actual bed. Groaning, he moved his feet onto the same level as him. How long had he been there? As he lay on the ground, still confused, he started remembering his latest nightmare.

_He was in a dark sort of room, but at the same time it was outside. There was a building next to him – St Bart's – and it was all he could see because it was so dark. He knew he must be inside because there was no traffic or cars and there was a blurry spotlight lighting where he stood._

_He stumbled to the wall of St Bart's dizzily and used it to stay standing. As he looked, words appeared on it blotchily._

_I'M A FAKE... KEEP YOUR EYES FIXED ON ME... I GAVE YOU MY NUMBER..._

_He stared until the entire tale of Sherlock and Moriarty was written on the wall, but twisted somehow; the writing was writhing, and it wasn't just in black – it was written in curling streams of something._

_A cloud of the black mist started forming into a blurry shape. It slowly formed an eye and John began to run along beside the wall until he came to a huge hill in the pavement. John started trying to climb in but he couldn't. It shrank down into a body, but for some reason he didn't realise who until it was fully formed. The eye rushed through him, making him fall to the floor, and disappeared into the cracks around the body, trickling streams of blood._

_That was when John ran straight out from the wall and into the dark. Suddenly cars appeared like they had always been there and he threw himself onto his back to avoid one. _

_He tried scrambling for the wall, which looked like it was made of cardboard, but another car came out of the dark as he reached for the wall. John looked up at the driver pleadingly, but Sherlock didn't look at him and kept driving._

John sighed. So now he was leaping out of the way of cars in his sleep. He struggled to control his face as he attempted to stop the panic attack he felt coming over him.

It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen next, whatever happened. If he got over it, he would get up and get on with his pointless day, and if he didn't he would suffer and then do exactly the same thing.

Knowing that whatever happened, his day would be the same, was almost helpful to John. He had a basic sort of routine, and he didn't have to see anyone. He could see anyone he liked, if he wanted to.

John breathed heavily to prevent hyperventilation, like he always did after a nightmare, until he felt able to stand. When he did, he felt all the blood rushing from his head and swayed slightly. Sleeping with his body on the ground was not something he wanted to repeat, if possible. At this rate, he'd have to get Greg to strap him into bed to stop his flailing.

Although he hadn't for months, John opened up his blog site. He avoided looking at the last two posts. The penultimate one had somehow been posted by Moriarty himself. He had broken into their flat, videoed it and commented on everything in the flat, before posting it to the blog. John would have deleted it, but he couldn't. Of course, he would have made a copy of the post. Still, that was what he would have done when Sherlock was alive.

The last post was his. He had embedded a news video about Sherlock's death and how he had been a fake, but he had commented his belief in him. He was his friend.

Ella _had _said that writing a blog would help. Immediately after the incident, she had said it might be best to give the blog a break because of the media and its effect on him, but now it should be fine. It had been months. The hit-counter was still stuck, but he hoped to God that Mycroft could finally get that fixed.

This time, he started a new post and opened another tab, where he made a simple online poll, before pasting the obscure code into his post.

_Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes? You may vote once._

Whether it was right or not, he was curious. Afterwards, he started another post.

_Readers,_

_I haven't posted anything for a long time, which I'm sorry about. This blog became about our cases, so there hasn't been a lot for me to say. If you have any suggestions or ideas for me, then put them in the comments, but bear in mind that I'll be moderating them. _

_On another note, phones. Sherlock's was password protected, so if anyone has any ideas on cracking it, then please leave those too. I can't tell you who guessed it (if any of you do), but it would be interesting to see why it was protected. I know some of you are giggling, but it won't have been anything dirty, trust me. He didn't even understand a simple innuendo. I and Greg used to have fun trying them all out :) _

_John W_

John checked it for spelling mistakes and posted it. Two things had been bothering him – money and the password. Of course he hadn't _mentioned _money, but he had found a way to get the readers to answer his question anyway.

He had asked what to write his blog about now Sherlock was gone, but what he had really been asking was 'If I wrote a book, then what should it be about?' He didn't expect that he would get many decent responses, but he had more than enough free time to trawl through the comments one by one.

He had added the part about Sherlock's phone purely because he was never going to guess the password and there really were some clever people following his blog. He had even made sure not to mention that he had the phone.

Of course, as John dressed, his phone buzzed with a message from Mycroft.

_I'm glad to see you're blogging once more. Be careful. Your treadmill should arrive soon. MH_

John didn't trust anyone or anything anymore, so he could hardly be reckless. He refused to step into a new part of London without his gun, but he rarely went anywhere anymore.

He was surprised to see that Mycroft was serious about the treadmill. It could turn out to be a useful hobby, but he knew he was nearly underweight, so he hardly needed it. A precaution, then.

_I was bored. You have the phone now, don't you? Thanks. By the way, do you know how to fix my hit counter? JW_

He replied feeling slightly perplexed by Mycroft before sticking the phone in his pocket. He was a fairly decent friend now, somehow, but he constantly warned John against doing things he thought were 'rash'. How could he still be in so much danger now? He only had to protect himself from trauma and the media's judgement, as far as John knew. Still, perhaps his involvement with Moriarty had pissed some _other _criminal mastermind off.

He refreshed his blog page and was surprised to find that the hit counter was now working. Obviously, Mycroft had received the text, then. He started. It had been refreshed only a minute ago, surely, but it read 57 already.

"No... No _way_..." John said to himself out loud. He refreshed the page again. 98. He waited another long, boring minute and refreshed it again. 203. "NO." he practically shouted. He shut the laptop as restrainedly as he could and walked downstairs, muttering to himself.

"Bloody hell, that was fast," he said. "Did all the papers start tracking my blog when I wasn't checking myself? That's just insane..." Lestrade looked up as he walked into the doorframe, misjudging the distance as he looked at his feet.

"What's wrong?" he asked concernedly. John shook his head.

"I updated my blog and literally two minutes later it had one hundred hits." He explained. "... Why‽" Lestrade's face seemed to flick through a couple of emotions before settling on amused.

"I thought you weren't-" he began. John shook his head.

"Yeah, I know, but I was bored." He replied. Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Right after you woke up?" he said. "Wait, how long have you been awake?" John shrugged.

"Not long." He answered. "I mean, I woke up, did nothing for a minute and then blogged." Lestrade frowned but ignored whatever was bothering him. John didn't ask. He could deal with it on his own, to be honest. After the night he had had, John wasn't in a chatty mood. Lestrade was... pissing him off, actually. Why did he care how long John had been awake?

"Do you want to do anything in particular today?" Lestrade asked, looking at John intently. "You seem a bit jumpy, mate." John frowned. How was he being jumpy? He just didn't want to talk and he had had a nightmare followed by waking up on the floor with all the blood rushing to his head and then the shock of seeing his hit counter jumping. People really still _cared_ about that? John had thought it was just him by now.

"No, I'm not that... I'm jumpy? Oh well." John replied. He had to admit, his thoughts were crashing around a bit now. He had a headache and everything.

"You did just wake up, though." Lestrade said with a non-committal jerk of the head. "So when's your next counselling session? How's that going?" John narrowed his eyes. Lestrade had never been the most subtle of men – 'don't commit suicide' and so on – and John could tell. He thought something was wrong.

"Greg." John warned. "Stop it." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and looked at John in some kind of despair.

"I'm sorry, John, but you're acting differently, and there's been a lot going on recently, so-" he said. John held up his hand and shook his head.

"I know, but I-" He paused and rubbed his temples. "I don't _feel _any different, majorly, no matter how I'm acting." He closed his eyes and continued trying to be rid of the throbbing in his head.

"Look." Lestrade's voice made him open his eyes. "I would appreciate it if you had just one session to cope with the more _recent _things that have happened. It..." He waited for John to nod. "It hurts to see you like this, John." John blinked. Greg Lestrade was being emotional. Sort of.

"How can this..." John began, but couldn't finish. Lestrade gave him an awkward, one-armed hug.

"The contrast between you a year ago and you now is... not good, to say the least." Greg replied to his unsaid question. "It's bad, it's not fun, and it's depressing. I want you to be better. Just... God, John, just _try _to get through this." John stepped away slightly.

"You think I'm not?" he asked, offended. Greg stuttered in his shock.

"No, my God, no!" He spread his arms. "I just wish that it could... I could help or... or _something._"

"If it's that important," John said. "I'll arrange another session." Greg nodded.

"I know you hate all the fussing, but it does help you." he said. "Practically every policeman has had to have counselling at some point in their life. It really does help in the long-term."

"You...?" John started. Greg nodded again. "Okay, I'll... I'll do it now, I suppose."

He took out his phone again and sent a text quickly.

_To: Ella (Counselling)_

_Would you mind me having another appointment soon? Greg's getting worried about me, so he's convinced me to. Thanks – JW_

* * *

**A/N – **Sorry for the crappy ending, but it works and I have to SLEEP. Did you notice I can be lazy yet? My friend's coming for a sleepover tomorrow _(I'm posting this later on, sorry!)_, and guess what we're having a marathon of? Yes. Sherlock. She's only seen Baskerville and Reichenbach, so I'm giving her a crash course of the fandom. The crack... Good God, the crack... I have a crack fic planned, but that's for ages away. I'm writing a really long Johnlock currently, and so far it's 25,000 words (approx.) and about 55 pages. I have no life. Oh well. Don't worry, be happy. I'll probably post that in millions of years.

If you review, I will love you forever. Promise. Cross my hearts and hope to die twice. Thanks for reading!

Jess


	16. Position

Unbalanced

Part Sixteen

* * *

Mycroft, as usual, received updates from all sorts of websites and people. He checked his emails every few minutes and his texts even more often. The morning of John's post, he wasn't alerted by his usual email (from the site on which John's blog was based), but by a text.

_John's blogging again._

Of course, the number was unknown and had since been deleted, and as usual, it wasn't signed. Still, he knew who it was from.

Sherlock sent him updates when he could, which could be every day or every three months. Planning a false death together had brought them a lot closer, especially as for most of the time they didn't need to be in the same room. It had been surprisingly easy to come to various compromises, and now, seeing as Sherlock was only just in the country, their arguments were far less frequent.

Mycroft himself was running a heavily encrypted site online. It was online, taken off Google, and had an obscure, code-like name which could only be guessed by a cat wandering over a keyboard for about ten minutes. Every time he made a post to the site, it stayed, locked by a password which Sherlock would decode from part of its HTML coding and various other clues, before being deleted immediately after it had been read. So far, he had only used it to ask where Sherlock was (approximately) and update him on John's progress. Of course, he also supplied a few criminals' locations, but that was the easy part.

How could he phrase John's condition to Sherlock and not disturb him? In all the time that Sherlock had known John, there had been nothing as serious as this. John was obviously still depressed, and Sherlock didn't know this. Not that it wasn't important, but if he found out, he would be utterly thrown and no doubt would waste time and energy thinking about it.

Then, as always when John was mentioned, he would ask if there was any way he could go home. The answer was always no, and the word tasted bitter every time Mycroft had to answer. If Sherlock were able to come home, he would be safe already. Did he honestly believe that Mycroft was keeping him away?

The separation was doing neither of the pair good; John was mentally unstable and Sherlock was becoming terser every time he messaged Mycroft. His stony silence emanated through every word, somehow. Mycroft, unable to track him on CCTV for fear of his own movements being traced, couldn't see Sherlock, but desperately wanted to. The last time Sherlock had been like this was during the months before he met John. He supposed that Sherlock was suffering a new kind of withdrawal.

He updated the site with a brief message in reply to the mysterious text. Even the words were coded. Only he and Sherlock knew how to crack it, as long as no one had a very fast code program.

_Yes, he is. I expect he shall be in the papers again tomorrow. Position?_

Mycroft barely expected Sherlock to reply to the message, let alone the question he had asked, but wrote anyway.

Unexpectedly, a text came through a few minutes later. Sherlock was working the codes out faster now, and the thought made Mycroft frown. He would have to put another wall of code around it all. At least, he'd have to hire someone else to.

_Expect news soon. Returning to base._

'Base' meant London, and Mycroft stared at the word blankly for a moment. He wished he could text back, but couldn't. By now, the phone it had been sent from would have been destroyed, crushed or thrown into a raging fire in some homeless man's dustbin. Quickly, Mycroft made another post.

_You can't be finished yet. Are you sure this is necessary?_

This time, Mycroft didn't get a reply so quickly. The reply came the next day, in the form of Sherlock himself, disguised as a postman. Needless to say, Mycroft was surprised.

* * *

**A/N – **I have no way of apologising for the gap in between posts this time, except by sobbing uncontrollably, which I'm not currently doing, so... sorry. School has hit me in the face with a sledgehammer, and I haven't exactly had the time (or willpower) for writing. Then when I _did _try to write, I'd basically forgotten my own story and had to re-read everything to jog my memory. Whoops.

Anyway, thank you for all the support, because your reviews (etc) really do help me now. This is a short chapter to ease my way back into writing, so expect the next one to be longer.

Jess

P.S. Sherlock omgomgomgomg he's back aaaaaghhhhhh etc, etc ;)


	17. Perfect Coincidence

Unbalanced

Part Seventeen – Perfect Coincidence

* * *

John's counselling session went... fine. Ella told him that Greg was right to fuss over him, but could always talk to her. Maybe John should give him her number? Haha, yes, of course, Ella. Of course.

As soon as he got back to Greg's house, he was affronted by the screen of a laptop – his – open on the kitchen table next to a pizza box. Evidently, Greg had been using it at lunch. John moved to close it and saw that the page open was a news page, and therefore boring. As he shut it, John noticed the words 'Jim Moriarty' fly past in front of him, but when he tried to open it again, the page was gone. He sat down, opened the internet, and looked at his history. The page was there, and it was only a week-old story.

The gist of the article was that the evidence against Sherlock Holmes – one man's word and some footprints, etc – was being reconsidered and tested in hospitals. How hadn't John seen it before? Had Greg left it for him to read?

"... 'Reconsidered and tested'..." he murmured under his breath, before checking himself. Although the evidence was little, it was fairly clear. He could forgive Richard Brook, but never Jim Moriarty. He could barely forgive Sherlock, if he really had been a fake. However, if he hadn't been a fake, then there had been no reason for his death.

Then again, the courts suspected something, apparently, so maybe he hadn't been a fake.

Why did he die?

At that point, Lestrade jogged down the stairs to meet him, a smile on his face. John felt pale and confused, but smiled back anyway, closing the laptop.

"How did that go?" Greg asked as he sat down at the table. He shrugged casually.

"It was fine," John replied. "Although it gets more boring every time I go there." Greg grinned, but John still felt slightly disgruntled by the news.

"How is it boring?" Greg asked incredulously. "I always thought it was quite fun, seeing as they let you throw anything you like. Great anger busting technique." John laughed at that, imagining Greg throwing lamps and chairs around. It was surprisingly easy to picture.

"Yeah, well," John swallowed. "I'm not angry, so..." Greg nodded slowly.

"Not even a bit?" he asked. "That's a very good temper you have, then."

"Who am I meant to be angry at, though?" John chuckled. "Really, though. Moriarty apparently wasn't Moriarty, so I can't be angry at him. Sherlock was a good friend even though he was supposedly a fake, so he's out of the question. Mycroft did it by accident, so..." Greg gaped at him.

"What, you're not even angry at _him_?" he exclaimed. John shrugged again, but shook his head.

"I know him better than I did before, and..." he paused. "He wouldn't have done it on purpose."

"Well, I never thought he did it on purpose," replied Greg. "But I expected you to be angry at him anyway."

"Originally, I was," John laughed. "But he's atoned, sort of, by making me see that he had nothing to atone for."

"Right," Greg nodded. "That makes sense, but I still think he's a smarmy bastard."

"Fair enough, but we're friends now and you have to work together anyway, so you should at least _try _to be friends," John replied sternly.

"I'm civil, I'm polite," Greg said, putting his hands up in mock-surrender. "I just think he's unpleasant, that's all." John nodded, digging his phone from his pocket as it buzzed with a text.

_Window_

It was from a random number, and John frowned. 'Window'? He decided to ignore it, but he looked out of the window automatically. There was nothing new at all. Greg's neighbours, whom he didn't know, had a guest, but that wasn't exactly unusual. This one was a tall, dirty-blond man.

"John?" Greg asked when he didn't reply, causing him to look back and smile briefly again.

"Sorry, what?" he asked, his heart sinking as he felt sadness overtake the laughter of his and Greg's conversation. The text threw him, although a perfect coincidence.

"You looked a bit distracted then," Greg smiled gently, seeing John's expression fading. "What did your text say?" John showed him and Greg frowned.

"Wrong number, I know," John said before Greg could tell him. His friend nodded and sighed.

"You can act happy for me, but it won't do anything," he said. John couldn't look back at him, although he could feel Greg's eyes on him. He felt too guilty for that. Instead, he folded his arms awkwardly and looked at the floor.

"I don't know I'm doing it most of the time," John replied. "Until I stop, at least." He glanced up to find Greg's pained face.

"I know," he replied. "You don't have to, you know."

"Yeah, I..." John tailed off. He surreptitiously rubbed at the corner of his eye, but Greg noticed.

"If it helps you, then fine, but don't keep it up for my sake, John," he said, before wandering over to put the kettle on. John sat down heavily as Greg turned the tap to fill the kettle and opened his laptop once more.

"By the way," he said, trying to avoid the subject of... him. "Did you use this at lunch?" John gestured towards the laptop. Greg glanced up and shook his head.

"No, I didn't," he replied, looking back down at the kettle and jiggling it into place on its base. "What, has it gone all funny again?" John shook his head and frowned.

"Did anyone else use it?" he asked, no longer caring about being casual. This time, Greg walked over and looked at the blank screen, frowning.

"No one else was here," he replied quietly. "What happened?" John shrugged and smiled slightly, closing the laptop once more.

"Nothing much, but I thought I had..." he trailed off, trying to think of something to say and quickly landing on the perfect explanation. "Mycroft probably did something again." Greg straightened up.

"That explains it," he said, chuckling. "Well, make sure it's not a virus, whatever's happened."

"Yeah, I will," John said. His phone buzzed again and he checked. Another unknown number, and another obscure text about the window. He looked out for the second time, but all he saw was that he blond man had left. Nothing else had changed. This time, he texted the number back saying that they were texting the wrong person, but he never got a reply.

He flipped his laptop back up and considered replying to some emails, but ended up staring at the news pages and wondering whether they would actually clear Sherlock's name. By the time he finally shut his laptop again, the tea Greg had made him had gone cold.

* * *

**A/N – **I wrote this chapter a while ago and finished this one today (just about) so I could upload the two at once. Is that a good strategy? Whatever; it works for me, and you get to read more, so it's all good, I guess :)

Anyway, yes, hello. Thanks for reading and waiting, and again, apologies for being so slow.

Jess


End file.
